K. Silem Mohammad
Your Dogma Ran over My Revanche
Yet once more the frying tricycles
And yet once more the new wave muttonchops,
Ye crabapple papa-bears and ye frosted oats,
Tho suddenly, I wuz flubbergasted!
Coitainly you can borrow my Woistershire! Nyuk nyuk!
It's strictly business—he doesn't want to try and make
It cry and sing.
Mewling fire that hurts when it deploys
A sound like ironing, why this dis-ease?
Why lank strips of watercress
And faux semblants of the Lethean reeds?
To what critical mass in austere diplomacy
Spiriting red despondencies do yon curt airholes plod?
If ought of gridlock's mere uncomfortableness
Have with the western shards, their coaxial
Strands in modern disarray, tender'd us, their minions,
Wit-strafed idylls of uxorious dawns,
We crowded thence as interested pawns;—
The upshot was, yippee, a vegetal plissé!
A coppery lesion on the fresh face
Of a Diet-Rite peruke.
Viz., this amensalism:
The nasturtiums once harnessed
To a powerful shopping cart in a ruder galaxy,
Inert Visigoths spinally doctored invisible cramping
Nestled in the mass of their quick upgathering
Ere it has richly heralded the gerundival spring.
Thus bank dick and battering ram have the pick of the litter,
And the few spears of buttered rawhide could not be any fitter.
Thus it is as it has sifted in the weekly specs:
It is after all a whopper.