With Deer Poem
My psychobabble is not worth the wisdom of Margaret Drabble.
My psychobabbler looks best in the gold light of entablature.
With Deer my My makes scrumptious bites local bitterns have gone blah too.
I am in possession of me; my me is currently Margaret Drabble’s.
A bittern shits on the page in which the font’s named.
My psychology fetishizes fonts feeling out the feeling they’re a fount.
My isn’t me; it’s its exact opposition; the place I is stated divides I.
With Deer kenosis erupts into a positive—blood a bath starving souls nourish at.