Her twisting torso tantalized
tall potted palms while fresh verdant fronds
waved like tortured genius or the mayor
of Abu Ghraib across the silken sprawling pond
towards myriad meandering parades,
These rivers of mystical proportions flowed
stuffed between contorted banks of mud,
“this charade cannot continue past noon”,
comrade Chaplain of Rangoon
boldly did ordain.
He huffed as his filthy silver beard
lollygagged annoyingly
in the dripping rain,
A shower of finesse cloyingly
caressed their furloughed troughs
of blooming lusted love
like precious flaming oils redeemed
as stamps of green
from dearest Persia
(in Allah We Trust)
or the busted hovels
of Bahrain.
No comments:
Post a Comment