Big Blot Fracks Prose, Blinks Hoops, Paints Files
It fixed the bricks with pickled sticks
but missed the minty kit of splints.
‘Tis not that hot, but lots of tots
want pot, and hock up knots of rot.
This shod kid got rid of potty-lids;
its codgers’ frigid dots kill dodgy fish.
These packs of yacking pandas hack
up racks of cats, then whack their fat.
No oboes know the show’s slow notes
but go condone more showy goats.
A slack hose can’t flow back: your mac-
-aroni’s black, cold, lacks old tatty folds.
The pink minx slinging dinky things
at kinky shrinks? It winks and thinks
too soon of looming school rooms, cooled
by loony goons whose brooms are moons.
Blink fool, link boots to sphinxes’ rheumy wings
with inky tools: bring cootie-poop to fling.
Eight ways to bait a plate of slate
await a mate to scale the gate;
my tiger finds me fine wide wire
while tired buyers sign my flyer.
Why late guys ate flies makes Brian smile;
Slight weight might wait miles breaking bile.
Hit shoddy pigs, get potties big on rigs
of lonely bat-bones, slathered gore-rat roses.
Ring pools with kings; choose chinks of moody sinks;
fly plaits of kites; die flailing; bite my crazy dial.
door Olchar E. Lindsann