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I'm writing today as a surrealist,

About a frog with the feet of a pianist,

A mechanical arm on an upside down farm,

Growing gearboxes, wrenches and peonies.


I might tell of a nude in pyjamas,

Or some roots with a bunch of bananas,

A trumpet in blue on the end of a screw,

Mesmerising a pina colada.


I may write of a face with no eyes,

A mouth with a fanfare of flies,

A cascade of wings and some very weird things,

Like a flock of cowpats steaming by.


There's a man in a complex contortion,

A suit with no head just a torso,

A girl with some string, a gas mask in spring,

Did I see a barbell? Well I thought so.


I could tell of a coil in a cart,

A hammer for breaking a heart,

A crab on a raft near an old phonograph,

A glass axe, two springs and a harp.


That's it, I must beg to retract,

But don't worry one day I'll be back,

I've a brick and some sand on some funny old land,

Where I'm going to paint something abstract.


© Joseph G Dawson