If it wrote a poem,

it would be a a greasy, three-times deep fried,

jelly filled, old fashioned, 

sour kraut topped, english muffin,

octo-stacked, cheese baked,

jalepeño, powdered sugar, 

hollandise, eggroll;

really.

if it sang a song it would be like

every town drunk and village idiot that every existed

had a spontaneous orgy after a racoutous,

neighborhood-waking bender 

that took place on a Thursday night at 

a kareoke bar with an irresponsible staff.

the orgy eventually producing an entire city

of stuffy college graduates and severely depressed

store clerk/baristas that adopted animals they felt

too incompetent to care for. 

If ir ate a meal it would walk into a library, shoving aside

 children and adults alike, im a major hurry, past the disgruntled

government employee, a man in ribbed, ruby sweater and cornfeild

slacks pulled up too high, whose raised eyebrows

and darting eyes

were just as curious as ambivalent,

staight to the section of ancient history,

up a small step ladder, to the top shelf,

where the kama sutra illustrated by its ex wife resides. 

If it had a dream it would be a dream of 

him sitting at some little foldimg table with a crimsom cloth

unevenly draped across the top

and a line of people that stretched for eighteen blocks, 

people that one by one

shuffled up to it and proceeded to throw a thick, 

but expertly written, hardback novel directly

at its face, all the while shrieks of howling laughter

bounding and echoing all the way down the city streets

from the arches up high, out open windows, as cerebral

spinal fluid gushed from its ears and blood ran like 

a pack of sprinter's out of his eyes, and all the while it trying,

a hilarious and appauling sight, to sign (with a felt tipped marker)

anything that remotely resembled bosoms or white teeth,

while garbed in boxing gloves and a hospital gown