Courtesy of mewithoutyou.

Poetry.
You don't like it. I don't like it.
And certainly you don't care about what is my favourite.

But anyway, here is my favourite poetry.

It's not even a poem:

Through mostly vacant streets,
A baker on the out-skirts of his town,
Earned his living peddling sweets,
From a ragged cart he dragged around.
The clever fox crept close behind,
Kept an ever watchful eye,
For the chance to steal a ginger spice cake
Or a boysenberry pie.

Looking down was the hungry crow;
"When the time is right I'll strike,
And condescend to the Earth below,
And take whichever treat I like."
The moment the baker turned around,
To shoo the fox off from his cart,
The crow swooped down and snatched a shortbread cookie,
And a German chocolate tart.

Using most unfriendly words,
That the village children had not yet heard,
The baker shouted treats by canzonette,
To curse the crafty bird.
"You rotten wooden mixing spoon,
Why, you midnight winged raccoon,
You better bring those pastries back,
You no-good burned black macaroon."

The fox approached the tree,
Where the bird was perched delighted in his nest,
"Brother Crow, don't you remember me?
It's your old friend Fox with a humble request,
If you could share just a modest piece,
Seeing as I distracted that awful man."
This failed to persuade the crow in the least,
So the fox rethought his plan.

"Then if your lovely song would grace my ears,
Or to even hear you speak
Would ease my pains and fear!"
The crow looked down with the candy in his beak.
"Your poems of wisdom, my good crow,
What a paradise they'd bring!"
This flattery pleased the proud bird,
So he opened his mouth and began to sing."

"Your subtle acclamation's true,
Best to give praise where praise is due,
Every rook and jay in the Corvidae's,
Been ravin' about me too.
They admire me one-and-all,
Must be the passion in my caw,
My slender bill known through the escadrille,
My fierce commanding claw!"

Oh, I got a walnut brownie brain,
And molasses in my veins,
Crushed graham cracker crust,
My powdered sugar funnel cake cocaine.
Let the crescent cookie rise,
They carob coloured almond eyes,
Would rest to see my cashew princess,
In the swirling marble sky.

Would rest upon the knee,
Where all divisions cease to be,
A root-beer float, in our banana boat
Across the tapioca sea.
When letting all attachments go,
Is the only prayer we know,
May it be so, may it be so,
May it be so, oh.