ThE pREcoCIOuS LittLE PoEm
I like that you’re reading me
Says the precocious little poem,
Preocupado con palabras mejor.
The death of my fifty-eighth brain cell
Succumbs to psychosis of language,
To which, this poem, says “drink on!”
I have always been a sucker for advice
From poems. Jack, black, on the rocks.
I like how this precocious little poem
Has already given me wickedly bad advice.
Trouble is, the poem likes it too.
I swear these things have a life of their own.
And the poem hates me for disclosing
Too much of its complicated secrets.
Like dark chocolate, honey, and butter,
Or a horse romping through your veins,
You smile like the freak you truly are.
Because, we are all responsibly bad
- life is too stressful to be otherwise.
Says the precocious little poem.
I wonder if it unfolded in threes
Because of it, or because of me.
Me! Says the poem, precociously.