Your Poem Should Have Four Legs

From The Purpose Pitch by Kathryn Mockler. A Stuart Ross book, published by Mansfield Press in 2015.

Your poem should have four legs.

Your poem should wear a hat in the sun.

Your poem should get plastic surgery or a non-invasive chemical peel.

If your poem is getting too old, lie about its age.

Your poem should be more like his poem.

Your poem needs to lighten up a little.

Your poem needs to take antidepressants.

Your poem should see a dentist.

Your poem should mock all other poems.

Your poem needs a boob job.

Your poem needs to get a sense of humour.

Your poem should stop drinking.

Your poem should stop getting offended.

Your poem should lock itself up and throw away the key.

Your poem needs vaginal rejuvenation surgery—just for itself, not for anyone else.

Your poem should have a good author photo.

Your poem should embarrass itself.

Your poem should hurt everyone else’s feelings.

Your poem should try acid.

Your poem should get its tubes tied.

Your poem should be sent away to camp for the entire summer.

Your poem should learn to knit in a café.

Your poem should be like everyone else’s poem.

Your poem should finger itself.

Your poem should finger everyone else.

Your poem should go get fucked.

Your poem needs to get a day job.

Your poem should be on a floor hockey team.

Your poem needs a feeding tube.

Your poem should take the Rorschach test.

Your poem needs seventeen more followers.

Your poem should find a hobby.

Your poem should blog.

Your poem should sing folk songs on the weekends.

When undressing, your poem should use the private change room.

Your poem shouldn’t let its genitals show.

Your poem should like to be roughed up a bit.

Your poem should spot clean.

Your poem needs to be more like a selfie.

Your poem should get its period.

Your poem should learn pain management.

Your poem should look pretty and shut up.

Your poem should have a boner.

Your poem should smell like a wax museum or jail.

Your poem should not walk alone at night.

Your poem should drink itself to death.

Your poem should be born between 1946 and 1964.

Your poem should be enjoying its sabbatical.

Your poem should first appear fun-loving and then be nasty.

Your poem should start in a waiting room and end in a car.

Your poem should watch its waistline.

Your poem should murder everyone or no one.

Your poem should be in love with itself.

Your poem should get a room.

Your poem should have access to contraceptives.

Your poem should stop sucking its thumb.

Your poem should go to a movie sometime or read a book.

Your poem should look good on a coffee table.

Your poem should annoy all other poems.

Your poem should have an attaché case.

Your poem should squirt.

Your poem should complain about the weather.

Your poem should pretend to say nothing.

Your poem should be literal.

Your poem should be understood by everyone or no one.

Your poem should have low self-esteem.

Your poem should feign humility.

Your poem should take the stairs.

Your poem should hide its obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Your poem should package itself for a grant.

Your poem should live in the future.

Your poem should assume no one is looking.

Your poem should assume no one cares.

Your poem should be a wet dream.

Your poem should be sticky and smell like cheese.

Your poem should not step in the vomit.

Your poem should be reclusive.

Your poem needs to make a lot of friends.

Your poem should never admit it’s a poem.

Your poem should stop an awkward conversation.

Your poem should stop saying things it doesn’t mean.