Seeing the luverly poem posted at Riddled by Another Kiwi, I started musing on a poetic career that peaked too early.
Back in the mid-nineties, I wrote the finest poem that I can ever hope to write- all other poetic efforts on my part will be mere shadows compared to this work:
Fifty-ninth Street Bridge
Ain't no-one feelin' groovy
Commuting from Queens.
This Big Bad Bald Bastard, unlike a certain other Big Bad Bald Bastard, cannot hope to pull off an impressive late-life effort to top this... no Sonnatorrek will rival my Höfuðlausn, if you will.