Wasteland

There once was a poetry page that let poets of any old age post their works in plain sight and await overnight for a critical (m) ass to engage. Things went smooth like a baby's pink bum one could hear oftentimes a slow hum when the moon was a cheese fully round just to please one could sense in the distance the drum. It was conquera and dividay* some young pimpleface came to display seven truckloads of crap just to be on the map quite akin to a prêt-à-porter. It was usually just a dumb bloke made of blackberry timber, not oak. With a mind numbing need to be spilling his seed like a multileaf French artichoke. No one read his concoctions at that, and why would you if someone had shat on your sidewalk at noon an entire platoon it is hardly a pink pussycat. (* the pronunciation of the Latin divide)