Goose-goose Berry Jam

 
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—