All These Squares...

This poem isn't supposed to make sense It's all rhythm and rhyme and little else So if you're hoping for something deep I suggest you start looking somewhere else These squares make a circle how does that work Well it's a paradox, ya little jerk Edges are cornered four right angles Not trimmed and blunted to make this marvel If you're still here looking for a meaning Be disappointed cause it means nothing It's on you since I warned you from the start This poem means nothing, no not one part All these squares make a god-damned circle How's that even fucking possible By all accounts it doesn't make sense Just like this poem's very existence Why did I even spend time writing this And why the fuck are you even reading it I've told you it's nonsense over again Just a waste of time for you and me and them Cause no square should ever make a circle It's just literally impossible