The morning dawned unassumingly. There was a storm. The thunder boomed boomingly. I filled out a form. On the toilet. Went reluctantly downstairs for breakfast, being starved for affection. Thought I might make some pancakes, being starved for food. You know what I found that got me ticked? My delicious flapjack mix had been nicked. My mind flashed to Brando in GF1: “And that I do not forgive.” He was talking about the murder of his dearest son. But it seemed appropriate. He loved his son. I LOVE PANCAKES. You stole many things from me, dear one. My heart, my virginity, my Don Mattingly bobblehead, my money, My dignity, my ability to laugh, my left testicle. And that’s just a partial list. But come on—my PANCAKE MIX? And so now, this poem within a poem (never been done before—patent pending) I use to heal myself via poesis and catharsis (been done before—latent mending) There once was a cold-hearted strumpet Who played both marimba and flumpet* She took my flapjacks She left me with Ap-Jacks And a cold crusty cranberry crumpet. I'm literally going to kill you. *look it up, stupid.