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Fleur May 23
Never trust a chef
They aren’t worth your coin
It doesn’t take a genius
To salt a beefy ****

Never peel potatoes
And never touch a lime
Shoplift a lemon
And save yourself the time

When you cook for fame
Or bake the daily bread
Something starts to stir
In the working class’s head

I’ve never been a pro
Or even made the grade
Just buy me opinions
As long as I get paid
Fleur Mar 15
Kiffi went to market
Kafei went to town
Both had things they had to buy,
But neither had time to frown!

Come and buy a rug!
Come and buy a snack!
There’s just so many things
For a fox to possibly track!

The crowds had chanted high
The crowds had whispered low
Both could feel the buzz in air
And hear the bazarre’s bongo.

Such a catchy beat
Two times their spirit grew!

On such a lovely outing
For such a lovely time
Both the tiny twins
Swirled with rhythm and rhyme

Now cozy in their beds
And tucked up nice and tight
Kiffi and Kafei slept
Smiling all the night.
Fleur Mar 12
Tulips tucked,
Prepared for breeze
Those April hours
The Wednesday wheeze

When all the pollen
And all the world,
Like milk that’s curled

No sour smell
Just tasteless terror
A fraction of them
Realize the error

They were first to fight
Or rather: to groan
The weary system
The laughable loan

They’re huddled hugging
By meters and miles
Like a Finnish bus stop
Spared the British Isles
A slice of life from the irrational side of March 2020
Fleur Mar 12
As I tinker with the tin, and set a coal upon the fire,
I ask to quill a parchment, my silly sigil squire!

I tell you all this now, in hopes that you may learn
Of how to dot your I’s and space your handwrit kern.

For a scribe who does their work, ever only by the heat
Is complacent to the last, you terry taffy teet!

Writing’s not just music; the lessons that I have taught,
They reflect a purple prose soon worthy of your ascot.

So let’s see that cherry chin, and keep your eyes up here.
Take your pen in hand, and become the puppeteer!
A silly conversation between a scribe and their apprentice.
Fleur Mar 11
Like a cauldron of spice that’s been left to simmer,
The shifting dunes; of sand and all it’s golden glimmer.

It’s a taste of home and I’ve got a ticket to ride,
Flames lick the lucid leaves you’ve drained and dried.
Fleur Mar 1
The critters never seemed to care,
How heavy laden-kempt her hair,
Or who had heard her hobble.

When the weasel and womble,
And a friend, a fine feather sawbill
Saw who, what, when and where.


Oh, she knew; she had dread;
The flowers; the flowers of red
And of vines too weathered for wear.

But her mop was gone!
No colors at dawn,
Just a whispered prayer.
Just nonsense.
Fleur Mar 1
The thrum of a city’s streets; the lifeblood of the foyer’s rack.

A simple lobby to most in passing, yet—to some—a trap of loss and lack.
A meditation on people coming and going in life. Social circles, stations in life, and how permanent it all seems when you can't accept the process.
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