I’ve got my fork ready.
Something dead on the table,
Something the cook posed with a smile
Before sticking an apple in its mouth.
The cook with his x-ray vision,
His dunce hat he managed to pleat,
The impression of his evil Siamese twin
Like a thorn in his side.
Home oxygen prescribed by a doctor
With a god complex, come to
Interrupt my dinner, knocking over
The angels on the mantel
As they cart in their tanks,
Suiting me up for the deep dive.
Little eye slot keeps fogging up,
But there’s nothing can be done about that.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment