Stork Poem Written by Me Me Me Then Then Then

I wrote this poem years ago. As God has seen fit to turn my brain into a dried-up old prune and leave me nothing of value to offer myself or you, I reach into my moldy, rotting bag of tricks and place this succulent, plum-like morsel on the table:


the stork made whoopie in our living room
that's why we shot it
it lay on the floor and bled and we laughed at it
because it thought it was god