I made up my spinny wheel of chance this morning, and lo and behold, the pointer thingie landed smack dab in the middle of "Rage Poem" and "Creative Epithets."
What are the chances, I ask? Slim to none, yet there it was. A clear signal that I was to write a poem of rage using creative epithets. Right the heck up my alley, I say. Even at 5:30 a.m. Because, when your day truly DOES begin by slipping in a puddle of dog vomit on the bathroom FLOOR, well, the scenery does look tinted in rage red for a time.
Forthwith then, my poem. Please to enjoy, all y'all.
The mood I’m in (by Tiff!)
Kind sir, if you were to realize
The mood that I am in
You never would have flipped me off
In rush hour’s smoky, clotty din.
You could not realize, you foul snake
That my morning began
With cold dog puke and hot kid snot
And from there down the crapper it ran
You pusillanimous yuppiefied jerk
In your Bluetoothed pussified car
Shot a bird at belabored old me
A blackhearted skunk is all you are
You cad, you worm
You evil smell
You reeking horned habitant
Of acrid raw Hell
You moronic, vapid
You troll, you wuss
You scabby itch
You stink like the crotch of an unwashed whore
You look like the leavings of a sick dog’s ass
You insufferable, nut-jingling, pimpled bore
You bloated windbag of colonic gas.
You’re the thin coat of slime on a nightcrawler’s head
A gobbet of spit from a coal miner’s throat
The leftovers found on a cheap motel spread
The scummy dark algae of a festering moat.
You’re a dank bubbling sulfurous deep-ocean spout
A fungating mass of malodorous hypahe
You’re a stink in the wind, a bad taste in my mouth
And to you, you ass, I say:
So, hi! Wasn't that fun?
Tomorrow IS another day. There's still time to leave Make Tiff Dance with your ideas on what I should write for Thursday; cuz tomorrow's WORDSMITHS DAY and so ye shall have a story of a most ineffectual Superhero instead me waltzing or jitterbugging to a tune one of YOU plays.
Have a lovely, lovely day.