The following poem/story should be taken with not just a grain, but about a 10-pound bag of salt!
You've heard of sleepwalking, sure,
but sleep typing? Probably not,
but I'm here to tell you that it's very
real, for I'm the proof; you still
say 'bullshit!'? Well, then you tell me
what you'd call it when you read something
old that has your name on it, but doesn't look
familiar to you at all? Well, I'm waiting!
I'm not a trained anything, but it seems
to be an affliction that strikes when I write,
or, more accurately, attempt to pen
something humorous; oh, it's humorous all
right, in the sad, pathetic way that drunk people
are, after about 42 beers at the tavern,
when they slur out a 'joke', and you're
trying to think of some, no, make that any
excuse to get away from them
Well, it's humorous like that; as in it's not,
and lately, it seems I must be sleep typing, a lot!