Rhymes Kill
by John Edward Lawson

Not the rhyme of madness whistling past your teeth at four in the morning, nor the rhyme of reason: war in March, when the temperature is better suited to the business of slaughter. Not Leanne Rimes, although vibrations from the
depths of her throat do eviscerate my ear canals. Not Busta Rhymes and his calculated street image.

It is the abusive poet! That linguistic scourge, that mastermind of mediocrity! It is he who necessitates my perseverance as Editor in Chief of the National Cemetery of Poetry. Every year we compile a new graveyard of
today's very worst poets, over fifty-thousand to date.

That is why I have contacted you today, dear friend. You, too, can reserve your own personal headstone among the voluminous registry we maintain. Your worthless words have pre qualified you--more than one editor has vouched for
your incompetence already.

Vane verse is not a victimless crime. Somebody must put a stop to it before even more jaded readers give up on the written word.

I communicate with our cadaver emeritus, Mr. Edgar Allen, on a daily basis. He advises me on such matters as when to burn the hair from my armpits, when to add herpes sores to my pizza. You should agree that while difficult to hear, his sage wisdom is worth the pain.

Our standard contract is a verbal one. If you desire inclusion in the corpus of our work simply scream when I apply the jigsaw to your extremities.

Ah...so you do seek a plot in our storied association! Not a problem. You merely need to suffer in three easy installments. This will cover all fees, including bio and snuff pic--I mean author photo. Or should I say "headshot?" Enough of these bad puns and I'll become a member myself!

And don't worry about those fingers. We at the National Cemetery of Poetry pride ourselves on our layaway program. All investments will be safeguarded in the freezer upstairs until your purchase is complete.

Thank you for your time, dear friend. I look forward to further corpulence with you.

Sincerely,
John Edward Lawson, Editor in Chief
National Cemetery of Poetry

©2003 John Edward Lawson

John Edward Lawson lives in Hyattsville, Maryland with his wife Jennifer. He has had over 200 works published on the Internet, in the small press, and in various collections. Three of John’s e-books are available from bizarrEbooks.com and he also has a poetry chapbook for sale, The Scars Are Complimentary. In 2001 his work won several competitions and was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Currently John is editor of The Dream People webzine
and four anthologies including Of Flesh and Hunger (Double Dragon Publishing summer 2003) and A Slap in the Face (bizarrEbooks March 2003).