An Ode to Bad Poetry
I sit at my desk
Working though at great risk
My back to the door
How many people are on this floor?
I fear the corporate zombies will get me
As I work here busily
I turned my desk around
But only then I found
That should the zombies come
There would be no escape, I’m done!
I go and grab the paper cutter blade
With this I think I have it made.
Finally he comes, all yellow and green
And then I slash him through the spleen.
