I woke up at 3 am in one of those states so familiar and not beloved of women of a certain age: dripping with sweat and unsure why it was suddenly 100 degrees in my room. As I blearily tried to go back to sleep, I wrote a terribly bad poem in my head. Then I thought about how I was going to get up and fire up the computer and put this poem on Twitter in one line increments starting with the last line so it would all be in order and stuff and what a novel fun thing this would be to do with Twitter, if annoying as hell and then I went back to sleep.
So here's the poem. It is very, very bad. Super bad. So bad that it is, in fact, a good indication of why 3 am poetry so rarely works out, particularly 3 am poetry that's prompted by the rapid fire bullet noises of walnuts hitting the broken down shed under which the groundhogs live, thus bringing melancholy thoughts of how no one really cares when entire groundhog burrows are wiped out by collapsing sheds or tsunamis or bulldozers or, you know, whatever.
Alack ye poor groundhogs
Something something something sort of ends with eeeeee, damn, I've forgotten it, but it was poignant, I swear.
Ye are but bound cogs
On the wheel of reality
Do you see that? Groundhogs - bound cogs! Yes! I rock at poetry.