Dear dumbfounding dullard,



Your hovel's not a home, its
pallid frame, collapsible against
the gentlest breath, you see: a ship
riddled with holes can't possibly sail

much like how a mind, rife
with stupidity can't harbour a
single, cohesive thought for more
than a few paltry seconds

before it finally yields to the waiting ether.
Still, I can hear your "game plans",
dissonant and droning, like teardrops
seized by the ramshackle furrows

of a tin-roof and juiced for every drop
of saline they can muster;
the redolence of your fast-talk,
stricken sun-bleached and sour under

the constant scrutiny of
the unamused heavens above. So, go on
spinning your yarn, and I'll go on
hoping that it someday strings you up

then hangs you out to dry,



Sincerely,



your passive-aggressive poet