What I don't understand about poets, in general, is if they're such good writers, why can't they spell their own stage names? You know who you are.
The problem with poetry in Jersey City is there's all these people who think they know how to write poetry even though they failed high school English class.
Anyway, here's the third installment of the I Hate Your Baby Series. IT'S A POEM.
CAN I MARRY YOUR BABY?
I've looked high and lo, but only lonelier become.
I have no baby-daddy. Can I marry your son?
I know not since when, I thought it was a beer gut.
'Till the belly button popped out and now I'm stuck
with no protector or bread winner.
Can your baby save this sinner?
When he's three we'll wed.
We'll live in my parent's shed.
His crib will be our nuptial bed.
And we'll be together until we're dead.
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