MAD POETS DISEASE…

Forget that of mad cows,

Mad poets are just how,

I have no idea what that meant,

It seemed to rhyme even with no intent.

Is this the way I will go crazy?

Through the capture of this disease,

No longer will I feel at ease,

With writing poetry, oh but please,

Everything that is unholy or otherwise,

Please do not take away my abilities.

Crazy,

nuts,

insane,

unstable,

psychologically unsound,

All these and more,

Are what I have found,

Myself to be,

When I write poetry,

Or just about whenever I pee.

I have no idea what all this means,

But it doesn’t matter,

Even if I am short a few beans,

Or maybe just a few “sense” short of a nickel,

I really try my damndest to not get into a pickle,

But sometimes I can’t but help the fact that with a sickle,

I must cut off my ability to type and to tickle.

There go my “digits” all ten,

Guess I will have to use my toes,

From now on to pretend,

Till the next diagnosis,

From my head shrinker,

That I have the rare stinkers sickness,

Called Mad Poets Disease…

                                                (ed)