Bulls**t Poem

Sitting back to read all I’ve written,
wondering what it is I’ve been forgettin’,
and how many times I was just bulls**ttin’,
and did I ever rhyme a word with kitten?
How many apples have I bitten?

It’s been a long time,
and I’ve tried about every possible rhyme,
and I like my Corona with lime.
Been accused of more than one crime,
and I’ve washed off a lot of grime

One day I started counting the stack,
as I was looking back,
and I noticed that I’ve filled up quite a rack,
enough to fill a sack,
and some I wrote when I was on crack

Who really cares about the exact numbers?
Unless you’re selling cucumbers,
or buying a stack of lumber,
and counting can really encumber,
and make you drowsy unto slumber

But occasionally, a record or two was set,
and then I published one on the Net,
but not a book, no, not yet;
I’m still not getting what I could get,
although I’m no longer wet

So I saw a record I could break,
a chancy chance I could take,
and it was safer than jumping in a lake,
and I don’t know how to bake a cake,
so now I’m writing a poem that’s entirely fake

Words in order, words in a line;
and if no one reads this, I’ll be fine.
But I’ve always found numbers to be a sign,
and if the pros don’t like it, they can kiss my behind.
But I’m going for twenty-nine.

Two different months, I wrote twenty-two,
and once, twenty-five came through.
Now, I think I could break that record too.
Not that it would ever matter to you,
so go out and buy another Nike shoe.