Stoolpigeons do coo
With a voice so soft
It’s easy to mistake
For angel food cake.
You imagine all of god’s
Children busy at espionage.
Roaches bugging your bedroom,
Bats eavesdropping,
A branch tapping your phone line,
Fog steaming your mail.
The Godhead got his pickup high-centered,
And no, he says, there is no spying.
There is only singing.
That raspberry torte with a bite
Out of it mouths a raspy tune
Dedicated to the chef.
It’s enough to bring down the house.
Run, children, run!
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
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2 comments:
The best poem ever made because it has a raspberry torte in it. Girl and I are going to live inside a raspberry someday. Whipped cream will be our clouds.
Word. But don't diss my homies.
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