A POEM ABOUT NOTHING
Here’s a poem about nothing.
You should sit down and read it —
It really is something!
It’s a bunch of words without a home,
Nor any context upon which to roam.
It exists because it’s been digitized,
But has no point to be recognized.
There’s a foot of meter and a rod of rhyme,
But not a single inch of thought sublime.
My little word salad could be rearranged
Without a leaf of its meaning changed.
Did I write this poem just for fun,
Or because nothing new is under the sun?
