Get ready to get pissed, because one dumbass dork sitting by a babbling brook seems to think that the endless bounty of Mother Nature is something he needs to depict in verse: The mellow chittering of the sparrows and the sun’s soft sheen upon the reeds have inspired this loser to sit down and write a poem.
Get a fucking life, man!
Robert Lincoln of Stafford, Virginia is seemingly vying to break the world record for lameness right now, as he’s spending his lunch break sitting by a local creek bed with his notebook, jotting down evocative descriptions of the jabbering squirrels that dart from tree to tree and the steadfast shushing of the water, gentle as a mother as she soothes her restless babe. Robert could easily have avoided this whole dumb production if he’d just stayed home and played with his phone, but instead he’s jotting down inane bullshit while he listens to the songbirds sing in the same ancient language our foremothers knew, a sound that was a balm to their ears as they did the daily washing that became ever more difficult as the years cramped their hands and dimmed their eyesight. When a heron showed up down in the reeds, Robert even got really close to it so he could observe how it moved with the deliberateness of a soldier at the moment of attack, yet also gave off an abiding sense of peace as the sun caught its resplendent white feathers—marking all these observations down in pen to…what…read to somebody later?
Whatever floats your boat, Robert. Fuckin’ dork.
After half an hour, Robert had already come up with several idiotic rhyming couplets about the slow fading of the sun’s light and the clean evening breeze that seemed to foreshadow the sweet dawn of the following day. It’s crazy to think that he voluntarily spent an afternoon composing this garbage just to express the profound connection he experiences when he immerses himself in the beauty and violence of the natural world, but he straight up did. Maybe he has mental problems or something! Whatever’s wrong with him, all we can say is that we certainly won’t be reading his stupid poem when it’s finished. Fat chance, Robert!
