Corruptional Pionese sprout leaves of old...
Plants are not like the goose that laid the golden leaf.
Let's be like real and not like make belief.
A magpie hit me on my what'cha'ma-call-it...
Crimson clover will come right on over.
This humidic day has cooked my brain...
After death there will be no pain.
Can we catch the train of life? ...
Or will we be derailed before we may get our Heavenly ticket
punched by that attending conductor?
All aboard!
Michael Gale
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-misfired-floral-race/
