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Bill Knott, obscure American poet, wiped the sweat off his brow and looked at the digital display.
"Number 33!" he shouted.
A meek-looking woman holding a slip of paper approached the counter.
"Half a pound of sestina," she said.
Knot grabbed a loaf of poems from the refrigerator and sliced off a thick hunk.
"These poems aren't very good, that's why they're on sale. If they were better poems, then naturally they'd be more expensive. You may think it's strange for a so-called artist to think in those terms, but I'm doing it to test you, probably."
"Yeah, I heard you say that to the last guy."
Date Written: July 15, 2002Comments:
Average Vote: 2.75
07/15/2002 anonymous (5):
07/15/2002 anonymous (4):
03/1/2003 scoop (3): how dare he! whatever. fuck you
04/6/2003 scoop (1): Well maybe the last guy got it. Jesus.
08/17/2004 Ewan Snow (3): this one actually isn't very good. inside joke that fails to get across why it's funny.
08/27/2004 Ol‘ Summer Sausage: I stand by this short. Pound for pound, it is the greatest short on this site, by far. Furthermore, it is the finest piece I shall have ever penned. You are all assholes, every last one of you.
08/27/2004 Ol Summer Sausage: Wow. That was so out of line. I'm really sorry, to you Snow and scoop, and everyone who else I may have offended.
08/27/2004 Ol‘ Summer Sausage: I fucking hate you! I fucking hate both of you! ASSHOLES!