Please, I ask, don’t call the type
Of poetry(?) I dish out “tripe”.
I admit it’s somewhat mixey:
Voice of greatness, then of pixy;
There are times when I’ll cronfess
I regard it as a mess.
its origin may be, without
More ado, in gravest doubt;
It’s half-done, or over-ripe–
Okay then, the stuff IS tripe !
by Ray Romine Saturday, September 15, 1951
