It's a thing unlike most other things
by which I mean a thing like everything else.
To this, my dear, you are beholden.
Nonspecificity is a virtue; don't ever say what you mean.
I dislike, in a semi-not-so-random order, the following:
poetry, broccoli, mushrooms (except the fun kind), sad
small hearts on the parched yellow ground,
cornmeal, old bananas, powerful hankerings, & most
things that begin with the letter G.
Get this, though, mon frere, you are not my brother
because I also dislike families. Can't get too
frantic here because the finches are flitting
too far out back, converging on the framboise.
I sing a canticle of sixpence & a pocket full
of Canadian currency & a tiny man with a shifty eye.
I would really like to love you, but well,
don't worry. I won't try.