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82. Thank God I'm not famous © 1 June 2018 |
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God has not allowed me to become famous lest it go to my head. “Shall I compare me to a summer’s day?” is all that need be said. I’d spend all day reading my own poetry out loud and to myself. It would be seasons of missed and shallow fruitlessness. Yes! Yes! I’m glad I’m not famous; otherwise I’d end up writing infantile poetry instead of stuff like this. God has not allowed me to become famous lest I needlessly trample all over those less fortunate than myself; like Margery Hansen who lives down the road and Anita Gladsberry and … oh the list goes on and on – interminably. I never realized until now just how unfortunate most people are, yet poetry pours out of me like a gushing waterfall. Yes! Yes! I’m glad I’m not famous; otherwise I’d end up writing mindless poetry instead of stuff like this. God has not allowed me to become famous lest I lose all sense of humility like Harold Kingsbury this nutcase I know who has a carrot up his arse and his nose in the air and writes the most ridiculous poetry that doesn’t even rhyme unlike mine at least some of the time which is fine if you want to write inanities like Harold Kingsbury this nutcase who has a carrot up his arse and his nose in the air. Yes! Yes! I’m glad I’m not famous; otherwise I’d end up writing crap instead of stuff like this. |