Dreamed 2009/9/16 by Wayan
I clutch a clod of chocolate clad
in purple glitterfoil.
I love true bitterpure cacao,
but this is a milked and sugared
jag-asteroid of oil.
But I peel & gnaw this crag too sweet
We unavoidably block some trains,
just a meter high. Well, not true snows,
just glued fine-shredded memos--
(far too warm and air too stuffy
for truth in this corporate lobby).
The Teller stretches her rangy legs
She speaks of a newly minted clutch
This endangered polar pack
of secular saints now (quaking) stands
--glum ol' clump o' chumps!--
in a white-out blizzard, on a curb
in some megalopolic Yankee slurb.
Forepaws flail, through sleet they bellow,
But cabbies all figger these shivering buggers
You know their tale will end in froze.
For haven't we heard this hoary story?
Or Little Match Girl, its grandforemother.
Although these corporate waifs have more
insulation--sans thumbs or toes,
Feh. Who cares? They're a tale, no more.
WHO WHAT WHY?
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