The Poet's Grungy, Dirty, Smoke-Filled, Rat Infested and Utterly Depressing Basement Apartment

It sat in mud,
the pig that is.

Sat in a pile of mud.
A pig!

And in the mud
sat a pig.

Oh pig.
Oh pig in mud.
Pig. Pig. Pig.
Pig, you are in mud.

Why?

Snow: A poem by The Finn

My shoehorn mocks me with grace, as
the radio sits in a corner and sulks.
Nastily.
NASTILY.
Nastily
Nastily.

My ear explodes with haste,
and a cellular telephone, somewhere,
in bulgaria
Leads me to my dreams in a zeppelin.
Nastily.
Nastily
Like my master, it chars
jesus like fire.
And in the end, we are
all crabs.
Fuck.

Trickling down my throat, cold and refreshing,
The bones whipped into a fine paste.
Others look at me oddly, and move away.
They point at me, some laughing, some acting sick,
Trying to make me think they don't want any.
Only I know better.
Alas for them, they shan't have any.
This tall glass of light green nectar,
Foaming at the rim with snapping bubbles of froth,
Shall only grace my tastebuds this day.
Not his, not hers, not theirs or yours.
Only mine.
Only mine.