Got My Poetry Panties In A Wad

It's National Poetry Month. You know how I know that? Because every single last cotton-pickin' thing on my library's "MUST READ" shelf is currently a poetry book. Big clue.

I'm no poetry buff. My right-brained hubs tells me that reading a poem should evoke a feeling. A feeling other than boredom, I presume.

I start each school year with high hopes, plodding through Poe, butchering Blake, sleeping through Shakespeare. And then spring time comes around and every poem feels like I'M BEING EATEN BY A BOA CONSTRICTOR, AND I DON'T LIKE IT ONE BIT. So, I feel a bit strangled, in other words.

I was glad to see that sitting beside the other cobweb-ridden books was one with Tighty Whitey in the title. I mean, how can that not be a book for all time?

"The Tighty Whitey Spider" 

(to the tune of "The Itsy Bitsy Spider")

The tighty whitey spider went down the water slide.

Got a water wedgie halfway down the ride.

Jumped up and screamed and ran around in pain.

Now the tighty whitey spider will not do that again.

What do I think of a poem about underwear? This is it, and nothing more.

(Not a paid review. I'm merely sharing some nonsense.)


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