Palmer

Palmer, Palmer, Palmer.

Be glad you rest
on your forevermore bed.
Because I would have to murder you,
were you not already dead.

You see, you make me
do this thing called studying,
which I am awful at,
and you cause me to fall, exhausted,
into my poor old bed.

And then I write
incorrect poems
with inconsistent lines,
and my friend will soon
be berating me
for failing
at poetry.

Palmer, Palmer, Palmer.

Die.