The Most Dreadful Thing

There is nothing more unattractive

More vile, rancid, or poor

It should be deemed radioactive

There is nothing I hate more.

There is no crime more heinous

In my eyes, no greater sin

To be forced to behold

A person so bold

Who believes they can play violin.

Somber Salad

The bonds that held (my heart perceives)

Have wilted dead, as lettuce leaves.

Angry winds that timely part

Two small things attached by heart

For when the solemn music played

It soon was clear—you hadn’t stayed.

And now I’m left adrift on land

To find my solace in the sand.