The imbibing poet imbibes at his peril:
His rhythm may wobble, his rhymes may go feral,
Escape and demolish their end-of line spots,
Form up into packs and devour his thoughts.
'Bots, boughts, cots, dots, gots, hots, jots, lots,
Naughts, nots, pots, rots, sots, tots...aargh!
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
0 comments:
Post a Comment