Ode to the Number Eleven November 11, 2011Posted by Matt in poetry.
Tags: bad poetry, eleven
Eleven often stands alone
Looking jealously up at the throne
Of a perfect ten and a whole dozen
It’s almost like a no-good cousin
Eleven fingers won’t fit in
There’s no top eleven on Letterman
No one buys eleven eggs
Two insects don’t have eleven legs
No eleven days of Christmas cheer
Nor eleven months in one whole year
No eleven commandments in stone hewn
And eleven angry men won’t do.
Will eleven find a place to fit?
A spot in the cosmos to be writ?
Will it find its voice, be distinct,
Or will it simply become extinct?
Well, if you like your music loud, so loud it will hurt
And the volume of your amp no longer will work
Turn it past ten, to eleven with a snap
And save it for the sake of Spinal Tap.