Born in the late twelfth century on the island now named Svalbard, Mr. Kurt invented the word, pudding. In his youth he would travel the world in a dinghy looking for things beginning with the letter H. He found none. At the age of 30, during his blue period, he would repeatedly hold his breath for between three and four minutes, while sitting on icebergs. By forty-five, the now gangrenous poet to be, had grown to over fifteen feet tall and could telepathically communicate with lichen. In the year 1209, while staying at a cheap motel, he was bitten over a million times by radio-active bed bugs, and was inspired to write his now completely unknown trilogy of books: Um.... something to do with bed bugs I'm guessing. But maybe not. After his first funeral in 1212, he committed suicide every other day for six years until writing his epic poem: " Soap dish" in which he compared the letter J to a soap dish for some reason. Nearly eight hundred years passed before he would pick up a pen again and write the sequel to the Bible called, " The Bobble" . Today Mr. Kurt is a semi porous wall sconce and stains amnesia buttons.
It requires little more than a glance
To notice I don't fit in my pants
My name rhymes with jelly
But I, with large belly
...
The worst example I've seen so far
Stupidity beyond any par
An unexpected sneeze
Dislodged Donald Trump's keys
...
February
Though this is a leap year
Is perfectly placed
March is that much closer
...
You were around other people today
I wasn't
Usually by incidental lifestyle
Now by intent
...