Remember this little ditty?
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
So I think this is a pretty good place to bury the body.
If there's one thing that Obama's Inauguration has taught us, it's this:
First, though, an apology to my readers who are poets and who have those hideous "here is my poetry" sites:
A word, a phrase
From within you they move forward
And push pen upon paper.
And, yet still
No one gives a flying fuck you pompous shit.
Anyone can write this bullshit.
Yeah, I watched the Inauguration even though I'm still a Republican and would pay to see a Sarah Palin porno.
I basically caught Obama fucking up the oath, and then randomly dozed off during his speech.
Then I went to work out.
Awesome pectorals wait for no man.
When I got home, though, one of the guys on Fox News was bitching about the Inauguration.
a) Fox TV.
b) A journalist complaining about the Democratic Inauguration.
Thank you, Obama!
Change IS happening!!
Regardless, the Fox News guy was bitching about the poet.
Apparently, MC Hammer wasn't available for the festivities, so they hired some broad to write and read a stupid fucking poem instead.
Can't touch this.
I'm not writing the poem, but here is the link for those interested in reading it.
Ah, now that the one person who clicked on the link is back, let's continue.
Here's an excerpt:
"All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of our ancestors on our tongues. Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair."
The first black President is about to be sworn in, and you're reading shit about some guy changing a fucking tire?
And I have an ancestor on my tongue?!
Jesus H. Christ.
I thought it was just a fucking cold sore.
While you're in there, can you pick out that strawberry seed stuck in my back molar? You're a dear.
Just curious, but since when could I just open a fucking Thesaurus, write down some random shit, call it fucking poetry and then get invited to read it for the President?
If I can draw a goddamn turtle from a matchbook cover without tracing him, do I get to go to the fucking ball, too?
You see...we can all be poets.
You can do it too.
Here...watch how I transform my morning into poetry:
I woke up this morning and my goddamn nose was bleeding. Fucking winter. I drank a cup of coffee, took a giant shit that broke the surface of the water, and did the crossword puzzle. I think I have a hemorrhoid or colon cancer because my shit was red. Then I went to work.
Transformed into poetry:
Awaken, I am, and expunge a flood of crimson life.
The days have become cold and dry.
Refreshed I become in the nectar of the Gods
as I sit upon the throne of contentment;
Concern for my inner being dwells
As the evidence of my movement breaches the surface
And, forlorn, all that I see is red and disturbing.
Then I went to fucking work.
Excuse me, now.
I have to go fix my fucking tire if I'm ever gonna make it to the 2012 ceremony.