Rhyming is for losers
And poems are for wimps.
Words are all for wusses
And reading's just for shrimps.

What kinda freakin' nerd
Has time to care about
A bunch of strung-up words
That [i]other[/i] nerds spit out!

There's sports and cars and stores,
And clothes and shoes and sun.
If you'd rather write or draw,
Then you're un-American!

Who's got time to ponder
Beneath a willow's shade?
Or find themselves a lover,
Compared to summers' days!

What kind of freak would like
A hand to hold their own,
While shooting stars and comets dance
With streaks as white as bone.

The silence of the winter;
The insect-songs of sun.
The difference 'tween a wine glass
And a tankard full of rum.

The itty-bitty silence
That follows every kiss.
When you try to throw your keys to her
And somehow fucking miss.

A freezer full of ice cream
And an attic full of stuff.
I could go on for ages
But I think I've said enough!

Who, why,
[b][i]Who[/i][/b]

... would care for these things?