Before I slash and burn my fields
I kiss the blade my reaper wields.
Bad poetry wells forth and gushes;
lyric sanity now hushes.
Teenage angst is smeared all over
suicidal nerds warmed over . . .
Bring some towels! My verse is flowing . . .
And my poetic dullness showing.
It makes your well-paid therapist sing;
this whining/slashing/cutting thing,
Since he or she is paid by the hour —
while you coagulate, and glower.