
don’t mean to harp
but i love
Bob Harper,
think he’s hot—dope—
saw all his wannabe haters
dang, dang,
dangling on a rope.
media hagites—
social sores—
judge a heart’s value
over a goddamn hill.
here, though,
is the bitter pill—
the hater-taters
are just pixelite swill.
POET’S NOTE:
Part of the Truth, Applied collection.
© 2026 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.

This Macabre Monday
Devilishly Dreadful
Saint Sorebones
© 2026 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.


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