By J.H Curtis
Some drivel
drooled
through the words of the page,
offending my time-pressed sense
of death or the bus
or something like that.
The molesting goop
that dribbled,
or drabbled,
a leaden scribble or scrawl,
sort of slumped
or oozed,
the bit of poo,
caught the toe
(of my mind, of course),
and I stumbled.
This drolling droolie doup
I found
was my own
dopey dumpling.
Shoot.
Clutching at Straws 
Funny.
Whatever you’re saying here, you’re saying it pretty damn well. Brilliant imagery. And your lines are perfect, as is your diction. In short, this is the best poem I’ve read in a long, long while. Thank you.
Just read it again, and I still love it.