And so I lounged on a borrowed couch
Devoid of inspiration
And instead of making the difficult choice
To use my imagination
I went onto my phone to search
The internet for an answer
And I recalled why random prompts
Are worse, perhaps, than cancer.
But undeterred, despite misgivings
I shall now attempt
To write what poetrypromptgenerator.com
Gave me without contempt:
There once was a sanctimonious hand-wringer
Whose neurotic pedantry gave a metaphorical finger
To those who deign to carouse
With those of osseous brows.
Some compare me to him as a visual dead ringer.
