A tanka about pumpkin spice.
A rhyme about treasonous criminals that don't like rap music.
Do not pass go Or collect two hundred Nailed to a cross Another martyr mother Hubbard Looking in the cupboard Didn't find what he's looking for The dirty bits on Biden R they under there? Under where? Mister Trump just Peed in his underwear Written for Chelsea Owens' Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest
Like Nostradamus' quatrains, mine hold secret messages. Don't look for tags to help you out.
Take a dip and crunch on nacho chips at the pool party.
Puppets on pulpits. People in pews. Voters in booths. You know the truth.
To quote Fight Club, "The things you own end up owning you."