The not not bird
listens to its not not song
in the not not tree
near my not not door.
And in its song it hears
something not not grand
compared to all the other
not not birds
in all the other not not lands.
The not not bird
doesn’t know
all the not not things
it’s suppose not to know.
It sees not the not not leaves
written in this poetry.
Smells not the not not flowers
swaying not in the not not breeze.
Hears not the buzzing of not not wings
of all the yellow not not bees
supping on all this wondrous not not majesty.
For this not not door of mine
is neither not not open
nor not not close.
For that is not the not not providence
of this not not poem to define.
I choose whether or not
all this not not nonsense
shall be or not not be
in some future not not prosody.
For those who beg to decline
I privy thee to write
your own damn not not rhyme!
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