"I'd like them just a little darker please",
she said to the optometrist without
anything but certainty, indeed:
the glib assurance rotting the devout.
He was God and she his humble slave,
and he was there to meet her every whim;
the world's too bright and duty far too grave,
she wished it all a shade (that's all!) more dim.
He gives her what she wants with no reproof
and knows she'll want the same thing in a year;
she'll soon be blind (and happier to boot!),
the moon and stars will fade and disappear.
He gives her all she asks for with a smile:
let them bear their own sins for a while.

------------------------

Jumbled prose does not a poem make
it only makes a prose or poem bad
when lines are broken, reason made to break
the end result, in every way, is sad.
Just list a steady stream of things and make
associations, but ignore the call
to take connections and elucidate
and come at last to any sense at all.
Fill the text with meaningless asides,
for should you want profoundness to be found
it's deep within obscurity it hides
along the stony, incoherent ground.
Then end it just as you began the thing
and act like something happened in between.

--------------------------

The poem deserves to be hated
and the poet profusely berated
We've only begun
but I hope when we're done
that our meritous wrath isn't sated!