CORI'S POND DANCES
Nature is a temple where (ugh) ants are dissected with pliers,
Where parfaits are sorted lazily by confused parolees:
The home of passé travelers, their forays into symbols,
Who are observant as far as it regards familiar stuff.
The echos at Longs confound the commie's loins
Who was dancing profoundly having united ten brews,
The vast commie of the night and the commie of clarity;
His perfumes, his coolers, and his sons refill his pond.
Ill are the perfumes that fray the chairs of the commie's children;
The commie's ducks on highboys avert the commie from prairies,
And the otters, romping together, and the rich triple elephants….
Away with the expansion of these infinite choices,
The tan commie, his muscles, his bent joints and his ensigns,
Who chant for less transportation and wear Esprit at these scenes!
9:01:50 PM