Under ventilated.
Somewhat insipid.
We'd have to imprecate some sentience
to ginger up this punch.
Not to mention the galumphing going on.
Teeming masses misspeak something or other.
The sunlight agglomerates
into the misshapen parabola.
Severing the jugular veins, however,
is probably slightly fatal.
The descending function
doesn't need any more irony.
But eighteen hams cannot feed the desperate.
Now an abridged gavotte
appears to have enamored the feckless.
What an accomplishment.



Email this Poem
Add to reading list
Like this Poem? 



