My poem was born from thinking,
 
              Like Stephen King riding in a limousine and sucking a tangerine and reading a magazine.
 
                   Thinking ‘bout a Venice Gondolier and a financier who disappeared.
 
My poem speaks from the heart, unlike a Simpson named Bart.  
 
My poem is not profane, it’s propane.  
 
My poem is not insane, it’s humane.
 
My poem doesn’t restrains, it sustains.
 
My poem is as true as a statue, it’s not misconstrued, it’s not taboo.
 
               Like when the Sioux pursued a cockatoo who stole their canoe,
 
                Well maybe my poem is a little fake, a little half-baked, like a lying snake.  
 
But still, my poem is the best, it’s better than all the rest, it’s the strongest bird in the nest, it’s a praise fest.