she was the wolf
that cried
“girl”,
the pumpkin-lover
sure to beat the carriage home,
the napping blueblood who
rolled over
in lieu of kisses
–eschewing organic fruit for
GMO since she knew damn well
bigger was better, and
a sure cure for living with systemic
pesticide
– the mutant green–
and ever
mindful of impending run on glass coffins,
she trip-trip-trapped
across bridges
–aflame behind her,
a burning pyre of pick-up Styx
that had gone up like a pile
of pick-up Styx
// just like that \\
careless of gnomes, trolls and ogres, all,
but mouse-fearful of pachyderms
she embraced blackout conditions
(when available)
and employed catapult to sling Stones
–on the down low
. . .
–at a gun fight
. . .
–at a proper fi-fie-foe fed fire
all the while fermenting bad apples in
cider which
offed
the less hardy
(in cider = truth)
but not her royal ass-pain
–valuing rest beyond
formula, she
was good to leave
secret rooms locked,
–for heaven’s sake–
climbing 500
miles of stares
instead,
–God Bless America–
and presenting word jumbles
when it felt just rite
–presently–
to riddle you this.
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