Mother’s Goose
was well & cooked.
Force-fed, filleted, and foie-gras’ed
–when eloquence escaped her, and her hickory-dickory-docked–
the retrieval of which was a chase already commemorating the futility of the situation.
Wild, right? And just like those ribbon races,
it boded ill,
(to put it mildly)
–no rhyme scheme for one thing, and that irked—
the silly goose…
she forgot to duck-duck…
she diddle-diddle…
forgot that kat-kats,
are meer sometimes, too, and apt to find her tasty
–the invite to Christmas dinner
a thinly-disguised menu, really, worth
a thorough gander before
RSVP’ing, since
scrutiny’s a good goose trait,
doncha think?
Boy goose…girl goose, it’s all the same
except for the poking thing
nudge-nudge
oh, but I digress…
Back to the dinner party
(already in progress)
Yes, Mama Bird skimmed when
she ought to have scanned
moved when she ought to have
migrated
picked a peck that proved a pickle
and this oversight
practically guaranteed the
Goose
bumped off—
well, that and her preoccupation
with perfecting a
loosey-goosey, lockstep march
–her boss being the antichrist—
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