- Non-Erotic Poetry
- Sith Lord of Wyoming
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He strolls along the sharpened blade,
for he wears mail on his feet
and cannot feel the edge.
There is no blood in his soles,
anyway. I'm a fucking turnip, Scooter,
he likes to say, I'm a root
and underground.
I'm laid up food till 2090,
and, by God, they will have to eat me.
Without a ring, Sauron's,
that melted will destroy a snake,
there is nothing, other
than diligence and true contempt
left for us to try. Weapons, of course,
the Sith have studied, toyed with, mastered.
This is our most desperate hour.
Help us, Obi-Wan Kenobi.
You're our only hope.
Survivor Poetry Contest
Poet's Choice (Free Verse)
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