Every time I recite my poetry
Something bad happens.
The first time it happened
My car was stolen as I was inside speaking.
The very next time something bad happened too.
I killed a pedestrian.
He was dead drunk at the time
But dead nonetheless.
The time after this
I was reciting like a champion
I wasn’t feeling like a champion the next day
When my house burst into flames for no good reason.
The last time I recited would be my last.
I arrived home to a letter from the police.
I rang them and they arrived soon after.
They wanted to search my house for drugs.
“Drugs?” I said.
They found a small piece of cannabis.
I hadn’t smoked cannabis for decades.
You guessed it. It was wrapped inside an old poem.
Now can you see
Why I won’t recite my poetry any more?
It took some explaining at the Poetry Club.
But well worth it, don’t you think?