I was once on the best list, but then I proved you all fucking wrong by writing this. Think about that. Now I'm cool again, on poemranker. I go door to door & sell Avon A solicitor, A smiling wholesale artist. Sometimes, late at night, I think of my poor naked poems being lashed and mounted. Forced into #1. That's when Faith saves the day. She rides in on a miniature painted pony with a disco jingle background. Wearing a Victoria's secret get up, Just to shove a ten right up my ass. Somehow convinced I possibly could give a shit. Thank god, she's not blind anymore, etc. Tomorrow, I was thinking about selling my soul to the devil in return for knowing the true identity of all pronouns, always. That, and a monogrammed hand towel collection in peach, and burnt umber. That says, "Broccoli, Poetry, Dysentary, Murder" But some how shortened and more poignant Like sex with your weak hand and a toothbrush that part times as your keyboard-cleaner/hip hop-medallion. Why? Why? Why! Was I so hard on shit poets? Because... Chewbacca needed Han Solo to translate. I think that pretty much sums up what I think about voting Lobbyists, and your idea of Democracy. So take a good look at yourself, The next time you get the urge To form words and judge with that gash in your face substituting for a mouth.