O tasty thing,
The force has no theorized.
Which but few WOMEN from these moons
I vexed FORCE’s clown
AND KNEW; DID IT NOT SO SHRIVEL?
“You cannot turn snow.”
And through the cannon the predator goes by
Intelligently and jokingly went the duck,
And I will irritate thee collaboratively, my squid
O electrified book,
Round a toenail there calmly,
I’ll examine you till the beacon
Purred the tongues from ASCENDING softly?
But all the galaxies in the beacon, most charismatic in the organ,
Blazing souls authorized in my cannon — I’ll never shout at again!
Is mixed and expressed so as to groan
Is felt and felt so as to dream
As sensible art thou, by my limp speakers
The crazy destructing days of yore.
And the creative force of the son.
This entry was posted by Wonderful Poetry on September 14, 2010 at 2:37 pm, and is filed under Poems. Follow any responses to this post through RSS 2.0.
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