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Please don't tage me like that.

Ok sorry I left you hanging, I was asleep.

You ask if I want poetry.
But what i really want is pizza.

Your poem looks a bit pale
However I must say
It is not stale
At any time of the day.
And now to Storm's side.
(ol' Beaky over there)
That babbling bird
That says things absurd
And is too derpy to care.

I'm not a rap battler
Not interested in that stuff
But when the beat does drop
I simply cannot stop
Of rhymes I cannot have enough.

OOOOOOH HE BRINGIN' THE HEAT SON!

I look at what happened here
And I'm like WTF is going on
I don't have a poetic ear
So I just sit and listen to this... Song?
I wouldn't call it a song, so much
As a big heap of banter,
So I like to simply treat it as such
Without hope of explanation or answer.

Me? I'm like the sun in the sky
Brimming with poetic power
Every minute, every hour.
I may be able to fly.
Icarus, (from life pruned)
Through the air I might soar
But The airtime will be more
As with me, the sun won't wound.

OOOH HE BRINGING THE HEAT SON!

Any more to say?
I may be able to keep it up
Forever a night and day...

Then you can put
The hydrogen in a bomb
And render me all
But dead and gone
However it seems
That of it you only can think
Instead of washing my atoms
Down your kitchen sink.

Again, what's going on here?
It seems that old Qui
just admitted his defeat
By being blown to bits.
You notice I'm not
even rhyming anymore,
It's because I find
Making rhymes quite a bore.
...
Wait, that rhymed.
IM DOING IT GUYZ

Well no one really
Is a winner here
I never agreed
To be fought or bereaved
So victory nor defeat is near.

What about that place
Known as the Empyrean?
Asphodel's simply fields
The Emp will burn you clean.

Again, with all the poetic confusion.
Is there a point to this tripe?
All i can think of right now is mangoes
That are juicy and ripe.

And i actually meant mangoes.
Not something else.