Roses are red and I never blew a chorus/ the way she floors me she’s a florist/ and when she visits I’m a tourist/ I’m roamin for her so i’m Horace/ whenever I put this poetry before us/ a habbit, the rabbit verse the tortoise/ with the whole world coming toward us/ this is my steady I don’t run forest/ because I already wrote for us/ she likes to wake me up around fourish/ wrecks me for the day, tyrannosaurus/ because she is addictive, Philip Morris/ loving worded paper always tore us/ money isn’t everything, poor us/ and they have yet to award us/ so no one has been able to afford us/ that she is simply more ‘us’/ when my writing is not porous/
Verbose Musings 