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Here's a poem: swinging a baseball bat
into jell-o. Good lord, I hope they don't
sue me for using a brandname
(BILL COSBYBOT ATTACK SEQUENCE INITIATED)

I dropped a bunch of quarters into the grates
where they clanged off, turned into oranges,
peeled themselves, fornicated for a while,
and died to the tune of "Oh, Susanna!"

Fire is hot. Dancing
like some crazed sun-goddess (her mouth shaped "O")
with massive palms facing towards you.
She waves them around delightfully.

Buckets of suicide bombing rats dumped onto the president's head.
Somebody ought to pay me a million dollars for this.