Please don't read this poem.
It's only meant for me.
That's it. Just move along now.
There's nothing here to see.
Besides, I'm sure you'd rather
just go outside and play.
So put the poem down now
and slowly back away.
Hey, why are you still reading?
That isn't very nice.
I've asked you once politely.
Don't make me ask you twice.
I'm telling you, it's private.
Do not read one more line.
Hey! That's one more. Now stop it.
This isn't yours; it's mine.
You're not allowed to read this.
You really have to stop.
If you don't quit this instant,
I swear I'll call a cop.
He'll drag you off in handcuffs.
He'll lock you up in jail,
and leave you there forever
until you're old and frail.
Your friends will all forget you.
You won't be even missed.
Your family, too, will likely
forget that you exist.
And all because you read this
instead of having fun.
It's too late now, amigo;
the poem's nearly done.
There's only one solution.
Here's what you'll have to do:
Tell all your friends and family
they shouldn't read it too.
—Kenn Nesbitt