I’m not a poet, nor do I write.
I simply relay what brings me fright.
Joy or laughter not in Spring
Relaying brings me everything
I’ve ever thought and puts it out
For the world to hear, critique and shout
Or whisper if they’re so inclined
To heed my scribbles, not quite wise.
Douglas Adams might define,
my nonsense as quite mad inclined.
As if my brain were powered by,
a lemon squeezed, until dry.