This poem should have a warning attached to it, like those drug commercials that tell you don’t take this if you are deadly allergic to it.

This poem is bad like the impact of my unending desire to watch The Big Bang Theory on my ability to do anything else.

This poem is about itself, like those autobiographies celebrities write that someone else actually wrote.

This poem is kind of meta, like when Stan Lee shows up in various forms of media as himself.

I suppose this poem is a satire, like Jojo Rabbit.  Run Jojo run!  Away from this poem!

Have I made a mockery of the English language with my metaphors of horror?

I apologize for getting so deep.  A poem about a poem should have a poetic philosophical rant in it somewhere.

I am now stuck like Spiderman to a wall, if Spiderman also ran out of terrible writing ideas:

I now feel guilty, since I like Spiderman very much and do not want to drag him into this mess.

I am grinning evilly like Loki as I type this monstrosity.

This poem is a monstrosity, like one of those old Universal Studios monster movies

I really like movies.  The only movie with dialogue this bad is Attack of The Clones.

Have I made you wince yet?  Grimace as though your writerly senses are being torn apart like a pull and peel Twizzler?  Bite your tongue like Alexander Hamilton when Aaron Burr is in the room?  Have I thrown away my shot writing something so terrible?  Or do you, dear reader, bite your thumb at me in a Shakespearean curse?

This poem is hurting my better writing knowledge, causing it to curl up in a ball in the way that someone wearing wicker shoes and that had just dropped something on their foot might.

This poem brings pain to all those who read it, like when you try to use the bathroom after Passover and have eaten nothing but glorified crackers for a week.

This poem is dreadful but I love it, like the second Thor movie that is also so bad that I love it.

This poem makes it seem fun to be bad, like the Star Wars sequels wherein Kylo Ren is the only watchable character.  Or like the X-Men, when you realize that Magneto has a point.

This poem was a delight to write and probably a horror to read.  My sincere apologies.  If you read this far, thank the Phoenicians and be grateful I didn’t write about them or actual clones.