Years ago, I was talking with a woman online who said that she liked writing poetry. I asked her who her poetic influences were, and she said that she didn’t read any poetry.

Confused and suspecting this was going to go very wrong, I asked to read some of her work.

That was a mistake. Her poetry was something like:

Roses are red.
I have a hat.
I saw a cat.
Dreamsicle caboose.
This and that.
I fell down the stairs.

I literally can’t make my doggerel as bad as her word vomit. I can’t underclock my brain that much. Her “work” was so terrifically terrible that I just can’t reproduce it. This woman has reached a talent nadir and rented the biggest backhoe should could find and started digging.

I politely signed off and blocked her later. Not worth it.