Fat People Got No Faces

(To the tune of “Short People Got No Reason”)

Quit writing poetry now!
Surrender your pens,
send them to your
favorite Third World
nation. The children there
have no writing utensils for
school. Worldwide literacy
is more important than
your shitty poetry.

Quit now!
Send your still sealed bond reams,
unfilled filler paper, sketchbooks
spiral bound notebooks and any other
clean paper in your home
to the local recycling station. The
world needs toilet paper and
dinner napkins.

Quit now!
And use the pages of your
Thesaurus to mask off the
windowpanes. It’s cheaper
than curtains.

Quit now!
Your dictionary would work
well in your new career as a
serial arsonist. Just think about it…
you can call yourself the Dictionary Torch
and leave erudite, cliche
riddles for the cops,
“I am neither here nor there,
but everywhere. Fat chance you’ll
catch me o’ denizens of donut shoppes!”

Quit now!
Send your desk to the Army Corps
of Engineers. They can sink it with
the old subway cars for use as an
artificial reef. Artificial reefs attract
loads of fish and are great for recreational

Quit now!
Use your hands for something useful
like playfully spanking your own ass,
planting petunias
or helping the Amish raise a barn.
Please…anything that keeps your fingers
busy and away from your keyboard.

Quit now!
It’s official, you’ve given rise to a horrifying
culture of need and unjustified praise.
Kiss my ass please, I’ll be sure to kiss yours.
Nice poem…I need a psychiatrist…wanna fuck?

Quit now!
Use your computer for something useful
like downloading porn, hacking governmental web sites,
importing S&M leather gear from England or Germany
or balancing your checkbook to save yourself those
annoying overdraft charges.

Quit now!
Take the volumes of poetry you’ve bought
that have lead you down this false path and
donate them to the local skinheads so they might
practice their book burning skills in the woods down
by the river.

Quit now!
The following will soon be classified as felonies:
murdering the English language,
maudlin whining poesies,
linking together cliche trains and calling them poetry,
Choo! Choo!
Use of phrases similar to
the following shall result in sentences of death by
fire ant mounds:
O’ woe…my indigo soul suffers in utter darkness.
I am a poet and I bleed…utter darkness.

Quit now!
Your dreams are illusions of smog and dysfunction.
Please buy some new ones at your local discount department store.
They have clothing patterns, perhaps you could become a fashion designer.


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