Poem-A-Day: Day 342

AEIOU

Are sins your
facetious
answering to puns;
pale inkblot suns
fastening our
place in no fun?
Say the intro plumps
a weird growth lump,
and then, it pops pus;
hard, tedious
spatterings of funk?
Sad nettings sour
a wet ichor skunk;
a smell, shit on glum
madness scissor cuts,
and then in no stunt,
sad bells ding-dong drum
awe in songs sung.
Bad news is not dumb,
tragedious,
sadly yes, info crumby
and bled viscous.