A Real Poet

Dick spits and sputters as he stutters
He twitches and twat at what he forgot
Running fingers in greasy curls
Because he refuses to read a dictionary

He glares fondly at his desk and purrs
Fingers strumming those putrid curls
Slamming his face upon the oaken smooth
Licking and gnawing on that hard wood

His spurts and spills pool and bubble
Congealing atop Donne's cowboy hat and boots
Slathering foam across the tavern floorboards
But whales can't swim here, nor does grass grow

Thus, they grab his cock and shove it in a book
They polish it and publish it and shit
For, the crowd keeps moaning and coming
Upon galleons manned by bland seamen