Here’s a poem that should have been featured in last night’s Joyce Kilmer Bad Poetry Contest, but wasn’t. It was written by an anonymous poet who is also good at using computers (cough!) There is something special about this poem. Here’s a hint: it’s filled with money. See if you can figure it out. Enjoy.

When the ammonia filled streets of experimental souls
Attack hipster-lungs, ill-attended to by auxiliary social contacts,
Beaten in a burlap sack, high on caffeine,
We eat catfish, chalky like too many successive concerti,
On a starry-eyed crusade against decisive flannel.

Despite all this, there exists a certain determinism.
Disconcert,
Disconcert,
Like the drainage from behind when on horseback.
These are inalienable rights.

It began with the kinfolk, no doubt. They weren’t
so much librarians as they were mailmen, but that’s
just the matrimony of our age talking. Oh the mercantile
spirit of our age, with mercenary mouthpieces from
the present-day sage: the neurologist.

Well write my obituary already!
Enough with the opportunist!
The organic and overblown yuppies,
overlaid with oh so pertinent feed,
as they battle in the troths of a pigpen.

Promote the promoter, cries the
Puritanical subway loudspeaker,
the mysterious voice of which only has
regard for tentative delays, that is
until the metro signs a treaty with the common man.

The uncommon man, however, winds up
in veterinary school, whereupon
his workmanship subsequently fails him,
and he resigns to worship
strangers in the streets.