Squirt wrote a poem he thought was pretty good.
It said little, and was vaguely understood.
It mentioned breakfast, and how women are bad.
Its glimmering horizon was full of Baudelaire.
It was modern. Not exactly happy. Not exactly sad.
Squirt’s a modern guy. Does this Romantic care?
The truth is on Squirt’s side.
Dirty sunbeams glide.
Squirt’s poem is still there.
I wrote about Squirt’s poem in the past tense.
It still lives. In every single sense.
Women were bad. Now mine is good.
Squirting is the future. I really wish you would.