BY HARRY WAITZMAN
My sledgehammer tongue whacks the world,
one, two, three,
two times a day, evening and morning,
my eyes paint the world green
three times a day every morning.
No reason, each day gives us chances,
you win some and lose some,
so I would butt like a billie goat
and piss on the moon every month
happily giving it color.
Writing poetry is like fishing for words.
The prize is a poem, a big fish,
that wiggles in your brain until caught.