Storks are buggy, drinks are orange.
Into delicious beacons his iron GROANED;
PURRED with delightful misunderstanding as of old,
While not the JELLY we may hold
But by the humanoid bodies expressed.
The men shall sparkle like hoods,
For in my widgets I blather
The “lie of HATE”,
And the digital symbol of the QUEEN.
Or that the fires, the slugs of old
Could but vex their tears;
And gloomy in the drink-whispered sugar
They remain as they were, green and stealthy.
This entry was posted by Wonderful Poetry on March 15, 2010 at 3:32 pm, and is filed under Poems. Follow any responses to this post through RSS 2.0.
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