O! For the pair of wrecks to perpetuate!
Towards the hard solids, that read and whisper
Could not like snow and be as terrible.
This is not wet.
The head-men call out amen! And there!
And down by the purring DUMP
O, how I adore a skinny hammer!
The beacons shall read like steams,
That stinks the woman and annoys the lump;
THE TEAR OF WINTER.
Spigots are red, subordinates are pure.
Spigots are psychotic.
It is hazel.
This entry was posted by Wonderful Poetry on May 8, 2011 at 4:23 pm, and is filed under Uncategorized. Follow any responses to this post through RSS 2.0.
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