He was jacking a lantern by the pine board shed
Hands all greased with shining from the afternoon light
And working the damned thing with a determined head
Until the days end and the darkness provided swollen eyes no sight
...
He then placed the object high up on a tall corn casket
With garden waste stacked high to keep it all warm and protected
Which he gathered with his great grandmother's basket
She died a few years before because of a sore leg bitten and infected
...
He turned then, away from the product of his finished toiling
Pointing himself in the direction of pumpkin seeds with delight
And with belly laughs and wild eyes, he set them boiling
The hot water was spitting this way and that, some in his eyes and sight
...
Falling back in pain, his leg knocked over the pot and blaze
Finding himself without vision and burning in pain, his mind shut off
Unfolding itself in sheets into a vast continuum of nebulous haze
His body then twitching feverishly and in his throat of blood came a cough
...
Jacked by his own jacked lantern he came to his end
Laying now while lying still and skin growing cold
And the jacked lantern being jacked itself, starting to bend
Finally the wind caught it all and down to the river, the entire disaster rolled

This is a piece of shit. I hope that a group controbuted to this poem because no one person could be so talentless. Then again perhaps they could if they knew nothing of poetry and cared even less for words and language and true metaphor. If you wrote poem 572 please take pity on yourself because chances are you will get better. It is not possible to write any worse!