This is a pom...I think.

This is a poem

I don't know if it will be any good

If it will correspond to my mood

I just can't stand to have stood

I just can't stand to sit and brood

What a pleasant oxymoron it is

To have written 

What you would rather have just thought

As if your mind would have been smitten

With the things dripping from your snot

And I'm sure we all would have been 

Much better off without this poem

Tis a foul, detestable sin

To replace God-warnings with totems

So I rhyme

Following meter and time

Does that make this a poem?

Or simply musings

Oozing from my much to crowded cap

This is a poem

I hope

This is a poem

I think

This is a poem

Doesn't mean it still can't stink

The End

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