His argument was random prose
an ill placement of alphabet
I could, with inked duster
glitter every misplaced comma
Instead I ridicule
the grey construction
Seek my wit
in the dull glaze he uses
His expired library pass
and yawning eye
Indicate that this victory
will be a paragraph, often cited
My humour heavy tongue
riddled with post speech saliva
Removes from my upper lip
the sweet sugar of success
Shells of my vocabulary
litter the vocal grounds
His towel of defeat
falls like a wounded white grouse
© Copyright 2016 Philip H20s. All rights reserved.
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