A Brilliant Poet

He suffered from a phlebolith, a rather nasty fusion, a gray and stringy, foamy pith it caused a great delusion. He thought he was a gifted boy but to his consternation the only person to enjoy his immature narration was mother who, between TV, soap operas and Springer read all his so-called poetry and raised her ladyfinger: My son, the poet, bless him God some day will have the masses come running just to hear his odd.... and sit there, on their asses. In awe they'll be, and rightfully, such talent, such devotion! I think that I may go and pee into the Southern Ocean.