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December 17, 2017

Brent Kincaid

The Dreamer

He has little sense of sorrow, He thinks of fond tomorrows. He’s a fabulist, a dreamer. Not quite a true schemer That would be too hard. More like a half-awake bard Making up poetic outcomes For a reality that never comes. Mostly he’s a bum. He’s a moonbeamer, Sliding down colorless rainbows That he paints

Alliterative Assholery

Platitudinous, pusillanimous, Pulchritudinous, posterior Poseur, postulating pus bag Posing as plenipotentatious President POTUS, posturesome Proudly putting paws on pussies Publicly preposterous woosie Pretending propriety: a putz. Eternal egregious eccentricity, Endless empathy-less publicity, Effectively embalming ethnicity Eviscerates any essential nobility Excluding even existential energies Of expectations of excellence Instead enacting evolution-free Economical inimical extortion. Hourly horror

Pick That Nit

Find yourself a nit. So you can noisily pick it. Find some tiny word’s ass So you can busily kick it. Ignore the real issues Like who’s rotten to the pith, And bitch about the clothes Stars are bobbing for apples with. Let’s pick on non-issues, Like who is screwing who, Unless it’s the government;

Dawn Patrol

What is all this blather about dawn And the lies about loving sunrise? There is very little fun going on. It doesn’t it make me wealthy and wise. It’s often cold except in summer. It’s still mostly dark, not quite light. Stumbling around is a bummer, And, in my opinion, it’s not right. What the

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