My Poetry Sucks

Guess what? During my last sleepless night I found a site where you can get your poems critiqued as well as critique other people's poems.

So I submitted my poem January 15, 1947 to see what people would say about it.

While commenters tried to be nice, the general concesus is it sucks.

Sucks the big pickle.

One redeeming thought: They at least thought it wasn't "above the typical level of bad poetry." Yeah, that warms the cockles.

I am excited about some of the crits, though, as they told me WHY it sucked. Maybe I can learn how to actually write a decent poem.

Than again, maybe not. We'll see.

Three More Hands

If I had just three more hands
I could be a one man band
Playing drums, guitar and bass
I could travel all over the place

As I traveled throughout the land
Playing music no one can stand
I would become more famous than
Anyone else with three more hands

The news trucks would follow around
Listening to the awful sound
And I would be on every show
Even Oprah would book me I know

I could travel place to place
Everyone now would know my face
And I would be a happy man
If I had just three more hands

I’d have one hand behind my back
Just as a joke when I beat you flat
I’d have two more on my head
To fluff my pillow when I’m in bed

Three hands will finally set me free
To be the best me I can be
And everyone would know my name
My life devoted to my fame

My hands will have Kung-Fu grip
Guitar picks and drum sticks will never slip
And the music I would write
Could only be played by me at night

With three more hands not just one or two
I might get noticed by you
But for now you’ll never know
Cause I just can’t get those hands to grow