Red mutants are cannibals
Green ones are our friends
Blue mutants want our women
for unspeakable mutant ends.Horned mutants think they’re psychic
Feathered mutants truly are
Cat-eyed mutants smell you coming
and see you in the dark.Some mutants glow
Some mutant shed
But the worst ones look just like us
And the best ones are dead.
On Monday, I caught a glimpse of a food label. It said, “…cool, dry place” and I thought, “Wouldn’t that make a great title to a post-apocalyptic poem? Maybe a haiku?” And it did. Which inspired a handful more poorly-written poems in the genre, one of which is above. I’m not much for rhyming poems; they take a bit more effort than I feel comfortable committing to. But I think this silly thing turned out okay.
