The fourth poem fell on the floor,
It was kicked by salesman,
Flown out by the pilot,
Taken to jamaica and back.
Bottled in Mexico, sailed across to Florida,
Uncorcked, read, and said.
Mark heard it and passed it to Johhny,
Who passed it to jill,
Who was on a hill.
So I’m guessing we knew what happened to Jack.
Behind closed doors, in Sarisota, Tom emailed it to Larry,
Larry in New York.
Although it held no ground, just the ceiling,
With the big wigs, they still knew when to take off their hats, and Their wigs, for a desent poem.
I wish I could write a poem like that.