Phoebe

Oh, you, Phoebe,

Where… may ye be?

With your brownish green and/or blue eyes

Your poise was appropriate for your height

And oh, your knees – both of them – below your thighs

Let us continue our conversation one day

That one about how I ordered a parrot (fish) and then you wrote it down

And forced some guy to make it for me, bake it for me

I didn’t want dessert, and you, obviously hurt, brought me the bill

I got up in your grill, and still, you (previously) fed me my fill

That’s totally ill

Phoebe.

[The poet puts the paper down. Throws up in the front row. 99.9% of the audience applaud. 0.02 of a person gets up to leave. Out I breathe, put on my hat, and leave.]

– Scott Sandwich

PS: In haiku form:

I just flopped it out,
And then you, a clue, without,
Walked away from me.

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