outside the roller rink.
You had a Spuds McKenzie dog,
and you made my mood ring pink.
My Trapper Keeper held your picture,
a Pee-Chee held my thoughts.
I wrote your name in my Filofax
in yellow Marks-A-Lot.
I searched for you on Friendster
and asked you to be mine.
You wrote me on MySpace and said
"That would be just fine."
I sent you a fax in which
I asked if you'd be true.
You left a message on my pager:
"Beep beep means 'I love you.'"
It's sad that after all these years
we have to say goodbye.
But I texted you five minutes ago
and I GOT NO FUCKING REPLY.
4 comments:
Genius.
Aw, thanks. I only post poems to give Yet Another Steve the chance to ask, "Have you even HEARD of syllables?"
And Yet Another Steve, aware that if we're LUCKY we'll get a post a month out of this blog, is very, very careful not to criticize little things like lack of scansion or rhyme. Beating the cow does not increase milk production (he says, offering a homely homily).
But if the cow is praised too much then it just sits in the pasture eating potato chips and it forgets all about the milk thing.
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