WINE AND GATES
Heroine's Of A Candle Don't Jump The Handle
game of chance or change?
on my knuckles, the turn of blindness
is a harvest of tomatoes, for a crass instance
know the haircut, know the rhyme to guess...
of a lit bulb with a smell to compare
to nicer flowers in the garden...
where we are; a goldfish, the toadstool, and the were...
unto a librarian, we give a sunshine...
thought for a house of mercy
of a lucky heathen with a tongue to spare
the religion of silence, is a future with history
of a telephone with a moment to stare
money, with a pickled nose
ponies with a monkey pose
purpose under a lion's home
the right to a liberty of those
nuts
and the honor of youths is to question the fan
who, is a correlation with temptation in the care of muttons
that is, that beach, that seldom seen, that flag of spiced opium
where have we kept a time, where have we been
the total of kinds is a cool but limber buttoned tea
the tart has a nail file at your breed of mean...
don't give spaghetti...
here is the truth, the book your smelling
is a match with an occult craving of fish
the riches of fortunes in a finger swelling
for the friendship of an eyeball to itch
now try the fudge, that wax is forward onto wrong
the good ones, the bready ones, the tongue of moldy ones
know the care of a sanity in the cause of a haunt
of a driven mind to the fast of arsenic that said Moses
drunk and stupid?
red sea's remind the tattoo to live in the pot...
the recipe for more than an orange, is a working risqué
of a raving madman without a lip for snot
pie ala mode, shame with a bottle of sherry
the pride of a cereal bowl, thank you Mr. Mustard
the rest of the story was a healthy baby
that took the root of concensus of the custard...
on my knuckles, the turn of blindness
is a harvest of tomatoes, for a crass instance
know the haircut, know the rhyme to guess...
of a lit bulb with a smell to compare
to nicer flowers in the garden...
where we are; a goldfish, the toadstool, and the were...
unto a librarian, we give a sunshine...
thought for a house of mercy
of a lucky heathen with a tongue to spare
the religion of silence, is a future with history
of a telephone with a moment to stare
money, with a pickled nose
ponies with a monkey pose
purpose under a lion's home
the right to a liberty of those
nuts
and the honor of youths is to question the fan
who, is a correlation with temptation in the care of muttons
that is, that beach, that seldom seen, that flag of spiced opium
where have we kept a time, where have we been
the total of kinds is a cool but limber buttoned tea
the tart has a nail file at your breed of mean...
don't give spaghetti...
here is the truth, the book your smelling
is a match with an occult craving of fish
the riches of fortunes in a finger swelling
for the friendship of an eyeball to itch
now try the fudge, that wax is forward onto wrong
the good ones, the bready ones, the tongue of moldy ones
know the care of a sanity in the cause of a haunt
of a driven mind to the fast of arsenic that said Moses
drunk and stupid?
red sea's remind the tattoo to live in the pot...
the recipe for more than an orange, is a working risqué
of a raving madman without a lip for snot
pie ala mode, shame with a bottle of sherry
the pride of a cereal bowl, thank you Mr. Mustard
the rest of the story was a healthy baby
that took the root of concensus of the custard...
Comment On This Poem ---
Heroine`s Of A Candle Don`t Jump The Handle
Heroine`s Of A Candle Don`t Jump The Handle
