Monday, 20 January 2014

Somebody Grilled My Gills

I'm all tied up I locked my hem
when buttons wouldn't do
sleeping on the forest floor
recalling what is who

Talking to a passing frog
thinking chicken soup
with limiting ingredients
I can't escape this chowder loop

Encompassed in my landed plot
hearing threads that ebb and flow
considering ones onions
when dining out with Al Fresco

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