You will not like this poem.
In fact, I would be surprised
If you looked on it with
Anything greater than a sort of
Like coming across a pod of
Beached porpoises rotting
In the noonday sun.
And if putrid imagery weren't enough,
Recoil in disgust
At the all complete lack of a rhythm
Wrongly employed words
Rattling the bars of their whitewashed prisons
Screaming, "Let me out!
This is not what I'm for!"
This poem is terrible;
It makes you sick
For every plant cell that gave its life
Only to be wasted, dishonored
By having this dross tattooed upon
It's once lively flesh.
Or perhaps you are too critical.