Ramblings of a sleepy poet
Keeps popping into my head
Every time I sit down to write a poem
I have no idea what it means
Seven what exactly?
Gwyneth Paltrow’s head in a box?
Wait, that’s seven sins
That could definitely fit
I don’t think it’s the seven dwarfs
Or the magnificent seven
Who stole their shtick from those seven
I really have no clue
Perhaps it will come to me tomorrow
When I sit down again to write
On the 7 am train.