Poetry — Clang Salad

Brutes loot two boots many penny’s for your thought’s pot.

Not one hun, but I’m done; fun run, son won of a gun.

Rope? Nope, wire like line, sign of the times. Got any limes?

Hope for this trope, you’re dope to elope. Need any soap?

Wild! I’ll file this mild child’s pile, vile smile crocodile.

Where? There? Mare stares at stairs, don’t care. Beware!

Have you to do with shoes blues not move or groove? Come prove, come prove.

Change this mange rearrange strange game; I am the same, dame.

Sheep to keep, peep the sleep in the Jeep beep beep.

Brown cow how loud’s the plow for now? allow ALLOW!

Maybe rabies scabies babies bees go buzz because it was.

Mirror clearer and nearer than fear or hear her sneer, dear.

Thirteen scenes seen clean many a clang to mend an end with a BANG!

…you rang? oh, sang… so say today you may. Okay?

Fuck cluck duck in muck will fall not crawl so this is all.

Can’t lie rant sigh pants dry ants fly; yo, so this is finally goodbye.


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