What a stupid poem this is. When I read it, you don’t have to listen to it. You can go to sleep or write something. Anything would be better than this stupid thing.
When I wrote it, I thought it was fantastic. I made all kinds of plans for after I accepted the Pulitzer Prize. I was going to ride into New York City, go to Columbia University to accept my prize, then get the money and hang out the rest of the day. I was going to go watch a bunch of dirty movies, hire a bunch of whores, and live it up for the rest of the day.
I was going to be a big celebrity, hanging out at the swimming pool in Beverly Hills with the other celebrities like Sofia Loren and Brad Pitt with all the money I got for my poem. I was going to be the Numero Uno of the poem writer guys. Who knows? Maybe I could be picked for a movie role like a teenage heart throb. I heard that those guys made a whole lot of money.
Then I reread the friggin’ poem that I wrote. What a stupid idiotic thing this is. Do you want to hear it? If you don’t, I don’t give a damn. It really sucks. Well, here it is anyway. The title is:

“Judd in the Mud”

The dude walkin’ down the road was Judd.
Judd tripped and slud
in the mud.
Then what was heard was a big thud.
Then he called up his brother Hud.
Hud was a good bro and a real bud.
He wasn’t a no-good-for-nothin’ dud.
Hud was a lady’s man, a real stud.
He came running over through the flood
to his bud brother called Judd
and saw him sittin’ in the mud
and cut his finger and saw the blood.
Then he got thirsty sittin’ in the mud,
so he wanted a beer while sittin’ in the mud.
So Hud brought over a six-pack of Heineken.

If you suffered through listening to this stupid poem, you are a real trooper. I commend you for being so polite. Most people would have gotten up and got the hell out of there.