Brassiere in the Brasserie

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
Humorous poem in the style of John Ashbery

Submitted: July 21, 2016

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Submitted: July 21, 2016

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He sings the signs, recaps the pacers.

Here’s a hint: you need to be thin. Nit pick the tin,

but always recoil the coiler. Pat the tap to be apt, but part with the rapt.

Dear, dear. Dare to read. Those who lead do so in the dale,

After they’ve made a deal. Made with mead, that is.

The diva is avid, and all the icons are sonic.

There is no shade in Hades. Was it the saw? Or the laws about the awls?

Ha ha. Ah, ah. Ho, ho. Oh ,oh.  No, on that.

We all know death is hated, and the vile evil live on.

I’ve heard that tansy is nasty and the dog is God. And you, Dan?

Go on, no ifs or buts. Fill those tubs with water. But don’t stub your toe. It’s a bust all the way.

You’ll find more in Rome. Follow the routed detour, for debit is bad credit, and seldom direct.

The citrus shines rustic, so put the lamp in your palm.  Know those who practice eros are often sore.

When I banged the stone, I got ringing tones. Those who laze lack zeal. Diet with the tide as you are tied, and always edit.

Just due north you’ll find a tree with a thorn, where the hornet stung the king on the throne.

Blake was bleak about the rats on the star, so, Pam, go get the map. Were I Deus, I would have sued.

There are ten nets, so go to the ward and draw it right now. I won, but Lee ate the eel with the tea.

Don’t wear that garb when you grab, and never ever brag.  Wasn’t the bard drab?

If you save this file, you’ll have it for life. But please don’t eat that cheap peach, for the pale leap and peal,

As sleeps peels like a pear. You reap what you sow, and your nape is like a pane.

I hate the heat. Big Macs are nothing but a scam, though I would ride that dire road for Dora.

Look at the scar on the cars. And the liar on the rail in the lair with the Kool in his hand.

A yarn is nary worth a stone’s throw, and often a sonnet may weigh several tonnes.

Wear the ware and wear it well, because everyone knows art is little more than tar on a rat.

War is raw, so you end up in the lion’s den. With burning loins. The stern always demand their rents, while they turn to the terns.

Tow those two boats. He beats the beast, after he walks for a mile and chews a lime, headed east.

Cares often scare. So beware what you wear. Bats keep tabs, so be sure not to stab.

A dome is one mode of design that is never signed. Or even singed.

Always reside in desire. Find a mate with meat not too tame on your own team.

Many debs end up in strange beds. Lead was not part of the deal in the dale.

The rite of the tire is nothing but a wee ewe, where the dray horse slept in the yard with the pelts.

Don’t slap your pals who sit in your laps: that’s wrong, for a girl who’s grown.

Evict the civet—it stinks. Don’t worry, I sent the nest.  But what is a thaw?

You eat it, she ate it, and then drank tea. It’s the norm in the morn.

The maid was amid the rock and the hard place, so trap the part, and stay rapt, for the hare is really a rhea.

Lain next to the nail with the line on the Nile, this bun is nothing but a nub.

That stud? His boots are full of dust, and he could use a boost. Easy to stun him, because he’s nuts.

Shit! He hits the lean girl in the lane. Spunk? They’re nothing but punks.

Part now with that tarp. It’s nothing but a trap. Par for the rap. And per your rep.

The pram rolled off the ramp. I told you it would. Don’t just beat it, abet, and keep tabs on the bats.

Steam the meats for the mates. The blue eyed wolf will flow, as we flog at golf,

And the gel on the leg lags slag with the wand in the dawn. Oh, those Buffalo gals.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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