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For real, behold The World’s Worst Poem About Mesut Ozil

I’m seriously not joking. But you can snap your fingers in approval as you read this to make me feel better about myself.

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(warning: potty language ahead)

The darkness envelopes me like a stranglehold from a backyard wrestler wearing a sombrero and a pair of Girbaud’s.

The questions of the universe continue to claw at my soul.

The kid from Gelsenkirchen’s life has been full of storms, lightning and thunder.

Hail. Floods. Landslides wiping out villages full of nursing homes, animal shelters, and the cross-eyed.

What can I, a man, full of venom, anger, fear, worry, vulnerability, clouds, rain, wind, more hail, sadness, confusion, tears, fuck! What can I do to help the kid?

I must look inside who I am to channel the spirit of the horse.

I. Must. Reach. Deep. Inside. My.



Shit, like the kind you pass when the blur is colored navy and white.

Shit, like the bind you bass when the hurl is colored tavy and fight.

Poop goop.

Is what the kid magician might have.

He could be fighting the infinite unknown hole of porcelain, gripping the rim of the abyss like Satan’s trying to kiss him on the mouth with his fart button.

Could it be the mites and bites from the insects of the core that continue to nest within the foundation of his being?

Speculation is rife, controversy is life.

And with it so are unanswered inquiries.

But it all could be a simple, never-ending case of the chocolate squirts, and that shit.