Now I beat my brow, and how.
She wrote this on her arm in the poetry workshop.
Poetry? That will never amount to apple crumble- a mumble, from a passer by.
Whose eye twinkled. Answer me. Whose eye twinkled?
It spake of the forlorn and well worn wristbands from picnics with wistful bands.
Coherent thoughts in liquorice all sorts
Amount
In the end
To noughts.
And crosses
on hot buns in the local bakery.
That one's spelt bread, b-r-e-a-d.
A whole army fed,
On the pep of a rally to charms,
Sound the warning alarms.
******* alert.
On the winding country roads,
Squishing toads
***** nilly.

What's that?
Too tired to think?
Two-tyred, so blink
“And you're there in a jiffy”
Said the giraffe,
For the laugh.

There are children there
And also, every which and where,
Boy do they stare
Unaware,
Without the slightest inkling of the remorse
That we learn to impinge in our gaze
An apology for existence,
“Just coincidence”