Finds #1

Located at "Paramours of Prose", this morbid, morbid, horrid little poem makes me feel very horrible inside. It's like a strange, populist hymn for the dead, for the gone, and I can't support the sentiment behind it. Yes, Baby P is dead, but, but, he's not yours, is he? He couldn't be. We mourn the passed, but we should never... I... oh, it makes me feel so strange.

Here's the poem, by "Welford Soar", entitled, easily enough, "Poem for Baby P":

If you were my little boy,
You’d go to sleep every night in a cradle of wishes.
If you were my little boy,
I’d banish nightmare monsters with White Magick.
If you were my little boy,
I’d keep you safe from harm in a playpen of love.
If you were my little boy,
Together we’d build coloured cities of LEGO.
If you were my little boy,
Your lips would never contort with tortured cries.
If you were my little boy,
My words would weave a bonnet for your little cherub’s head.
If you were my little boy,
Your brain would be brimful of ideas and education.
If you were my little boy,
You’d know what a mother’s love really was.
If only Baby Peter were my little boy.

I might write a poem in the next few days, entitled, "Poem for Adolf", in which I basically outline how the world would have been different if I was Hitler. Jeez, it gets me all riled up.

Edit 16/9/09: I figured out what it is. IT'S EXPLOITATION. It's a fucking pathetic form of exploitation that is poorly idealised and poorly executed. A kernel of an idea that's so self-important that it fails to have an emotional connection with the reader other than to piss them off. So fuck you, 'Welford Soar', you self important little sow. Fuck. You.

The poem belongs to the writer, and the writer alone. I've posted it up for snarky, disgusted review purposes, and I've linked to the original source. This is what you get when you upload anything to the internet. God.