crime and oh-i-forgot-the-whip-so-lets-all-thunk-about

i was guilty of the crime
even as I thunk it.
where the line grasped hold and pulled
and I went
down,
all da' way to fancies avenue
where I commited homicide
against grammars and smacked
some verse around.
kicked a quiche
or two,
and dissed some French poets,
and their americant ho's.
guilty to be sure,
of crimes so heinous
that I could never show my face
out there, yeah.

 

Such was my conceit
to ever really think
I could ever really
thunk.