"butterscotch" poems
You are my dear, decadent desert,
My summer-thyme delight; Starlight.
Tonight’s your night, for you I write.
Radiant glow, fuzzed herbal hue.
My dear butterscotch icecream.
Sore arms churn thick, slick froth - Sauterne butter.
Gentle spread melts, dowsed in sweet, sugared innocence,
rich scents, then sits.
6 years pass quickly, youthhood gone;
My black swan, a third complete.
You, sauterne butter, mix with scotch -
Fermented, demented, invented to inebriate.
Golden brew dissociates reality -
Spinny, fuzzy, dizzy, funny… gone.
Go on again, dear fawn, 6 years pass,
Pant for the water, two-thirds complete.
12 years as toll to adolescence;
Icy, creamy, dreamy, element prepared.
Scoops of soft serve mix with years past - Angsty era.
Seductive spirits, beautiful brew.
At last, my summer-thyme delight dances with rhyme.
The lime-light shines; ten and eight.
Todays the date, stuff immaturity away.
Make room for the adulthoods’ good,
Scooped generously into a bowl
Shuttled and entrapped by me,
Melting, streaming, gleaming and freezing.
You awesome angel!
My pleasure supreme -
My dear butterscotch icecream.
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 6:43 PM UTC
Forgive yourself
Perfect was never a word suited for you
Love yourself
Everything comes back to this
Love your sister
She has been picked apart, degraded, and has an internal war eating her from the inside out
Love your brother
He has a time stamp of deliverance to a life of incarceration, bullets released from an absence of sense, lack of educated, blind ambitious followers.
Raise your head
You are a Goddess created
with disarming beauty in mind.
Continue to place one foot in front of the other
You are meant and strongly designed for forward movement.
Take no steps back, do not bow down your head, do not close your mouth
In fear that judgment will fall
It will, but you must speak anyways.
Your voice is imperative
to the growth of lost girls who are unsure what real women are made of.
Your voice is imperative to the peaking of the minds of men unsure what to look for in a Queen, show him.
Your voice is imperative to the readjustment of the image of
Black Women with large voices
Black Women with high diction
Black Women with love language
Black Women with literary genius
Black Women filled with nothing less than the peace & love God has manifested within us.
Black Women
Black Women
Black Women
Who love Black men like double chocolate moist bliss
Who love White men like dark roast coffee filled with cream
Who love Latino men like Butterscotch candy dipped in chocolate
The list goes on
Black Women who love like we are bound to implode if we don't give the universe what it is that we need back.
Black Women
Your Mother
Black Women
Your Sister
Black Women
Your Friend
Black Women
Your Lover
Black Woman
Love Her.
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC
We had a bench
Our bench
On top of a hill
The valleys, the world
Under our feet
I'd have *** n' raisin
You'd have butterscotch
We'd sit close
It was always cold
And eat our ice creams
On our bench
I went to see it today
To see if it was still there
Now that you're gone
It was
It felt bigger
Colder in everyway
Lifeless views
I stared into nothing
Until I couldn't take the chill
As I left, I looked back
Hot tears came
As I said goodbye
Now it's just a bench
Not ours
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 4:21 PM UTC
she had always said
her favorite color was yellow
for the girl with buttery skin and crystal eyes
it seemed rather fitting
yellow was the color of sunshine
and the color of her hair
after it had been bleached by summer
it was the color of the bumblebees
that drank from her favorite flowers
flowers that now
line her grave
she told you
her favorite color was yellow
because she knew you needed someone
radiant with light
to ease the depth
of your own darkness
so she said
when autumn arrived
you could watch the ground
become littered with yellow leaves
together
when you asked what color
lie beneath her skin
she told you it was yellow
she made herself believe
her body was freckled from stardust
and not from the amber glow
of cigarette burns
she still said
her favorite color was yellow
so she could continue being the light
in your colorless world
soon enough
your favorite color was yellow too
but not for the same reasons
she fell in love with it
you only saw yellow vaguely
in the form of teeth
stained from tobacco and too much coffee
smiling grimly through cracked lips
dripping poisoned honey
you guilded the word ¨love¨
with muted ochre lies
and now
she no longer feels the warmth
that once emanated
from her favorite color
she no longer tastes
the sweetness of butterscotch
and papaya on your lips
for you left her with nothing but
the sour residue of lemons and bile
as your gentle breath
extinguished her golden flames
and reduced her heart to ash
and now
she realizes that bumblebees
can also administer a piercing sting
and as she watches the sunset
with its amber hues
she no longer sees
the color yellow
x.
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 12:14 AM UTC
Quaint
pink curtains and tablecloths.
White walls.
The sugary smell of almonds, pistachio
and butterscotch skip around the room,
playing hopscotch and Mary Mack.
The display is impressive,
I can smell each grain of sugar
in these petit cupcakes and dollops of icing.
And then a little girl wails!
Mommy won't buy
her anymore
sweet treats.
Bawling--
the girl does an angry-stomp-dance-
and then a woman, livid--
storms up to the counter.
I said half dozen almond biscotti.
I can't take these to my book club.
Isn't anyone here competent?
Her booming voice has no effect
on the lone,
tired African-American woman behind the counter.
She seems disassociated from the present chaos.
The dark circles under her eyes
and the surrounding pursed lip wrinkles say everything.
Excuse me, but I've been waiting
on a refill of the complimentary coffee
for over ten minutes now
an uptight gent in a business suit complains.
When the woman behind the counter
pulls out out a shotgun--
there is silence.
This ain't what I wanted
she whimpers just before
the weapon gracefully slides
under her chin--
--!BAM!--
As I walk out the door,
I wonder how long it will
take for someone to realize
that's not red icing or sprinkles
on the cupcakes.
Aug 13, 2011
Aug 13, 2011 at 10:32 AM UTC
A Workplace Rendezvous
My eyes
Always found hers.
Mischief,
The dangling host.
She was one
Of my workplace peers.
If it went any further
I could be toast.
Those cinnamon eyes
Of hers.
Butterscotch candy
Peers back at me,
I feel so dandy
Shoot me some brandy.
I see the loneliness
In hers.
Her cleavage
Cuts to the chase.
Happenstance now in place.
Our eyes did dance a duet.
Her words are the coquette.
Mine is a cadet.
We grabbed a ruse.
A pail and mop with a muse.
When we reached
The men's restroom
The coast was clear.
The sun shining above,
Holding a frown.
Say hello to the clown.
We fast break the court,
I dribble up and down.
She passes back and forth,
I shoot for the town.
We score at the bell,
That breaks the spell.
Our lunch break
Rendezvous
Was a first.
And last.
We filled our thirst
With
better scotch
we toast.
Logan Robertson
10/6/2018
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 2:16 AM UTC
Vanilla. Nation's favourite. In fact the world's favourite
flavour. So very versatile. From Mr. Whippy's with a
cheap chocolate flake, next to a warm apple
crumble, on a pancake or in a milkshake.
From hot days by the sea side to the
perfect ending of Sunday lunch
and every occasion in betwe-
en. The creamy, comfor-
ting deliciousness
I once fell
in love
with.
But now I prefer the
irresistible, amber, nutty explosion
of Butterscotch. My tongue [mind] craves it!
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 9:19 PM UTC
Things were looking up that day
Not a thing could get in my way
I was making my way through the town
When the clouds rolled in and rain came down
I thought, “Okay, don’t make my day nice and sunny,
I’ll go find a movie that’s funny.”
I went downtown to look around,
No good movies were to be found!
I looked inside a movie store
All I found were sad movies galore
“A real tearjerker,” one proclaimed
“Heartbreaker?” I exclaimed
“No good movies, just my luck.
I guess I’ll go feed the ducks.”
I walked there and what did I meet?
Twelve angry geese that attacked my feet
“Well, that’s just fine and dandy,
You can’t go wrong with some candy,”
Once I got there, lo and behold,
Black licorice and butterscotch, getting old.
“Well ***** it, I’m going home.
Maybe I’ll make a latte with foam.”
What did I find there in the complex?
Old Man Carruthers died with a hex
****** ****** his wife cried out
She screamed and screamed and ran all about.
****** I tell you, And I know who!”
And with grace, she pointed at me and yelled, “YOU!”
They called the police and took me away
Now here I am clutching my cafeteria tray
I have advice, walkaway when things get rowdy,
And remember, sunny days can turn cloudy
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 3:39 PM UTC
*Do you remember those summer noon times when the sun painted the world with shades of warm butterscotch. We sat stringing daisies together; like unbroken chains of our conversations - that lasted till sunset -
Swirling candy floss clouds, dissolved; leaving hues of soft pink that fused with the periwinkle sky. We'd walk home marvelling at nature's tie and dye.
After all these years you've drifted away like wisps of floating clouds; But the warm colour of your friendship has splashed itself onto the canvas of my memories
..and I will always remember those vibrant summer days that I spent sitting by your side.*
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 8:42 AM UTC
There’s a place, where licorice vines have climbed,
Deep in the night, that only children can find;
Where leaves of waxed paper on trees are hung,
And what grows on the branches is sweet to the tongue.
Garlands of butterscotch, chocolate, and mint,
In their bright wrappers, sparkle, and glint;
Bubbling springs of sarsaparilla, through the valley are poured,
Washing sugar beaches with reeds of sour chord.
Swedish fish swim in soda geysers with bliss,
While fizzing pop-rocks spurt, spittle, and hiss.
Sunset clouds of cotton candy sweep past in the sky;
Trees sway in the delicious breeze that smells like apple pie.
Skies will rain down skittles, when there is a storm,
Pelting molasses window panes in a giant swarm;
Sour gummi worms are dug up, free to take,
In the grainy, nutmeg layers of the coffee cake.
Carmel creams, Mary Janes, Black Jacks, and Almond Joys,
Coconutties, Jawbreakers, Carmel Rolos and Long Boys--
All these grow, in lines straight as peppermint sticks,
Planted in brown sugar, on fields of cinnamon toothpicks;
But when the sun lets out its first ray,
The entire land just melts away
And children don’t remember where they’ve been,
That whole night asleep, but they wake with a grin;
And through the whole day, their dreams will entice,
Until they visit again, the Land of Sugar and Spice.
8/9/11
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 4:32 PM UTC
It rhymed, it seemed sensible
Although maybe reprehensible
Because it didn’t quite make sense,
Questions with no answers
Intensifying with the questioning
But never mentioning any answers
Just mysteries but no attempts
To justify
What was being said,
The page being fed
with more words
read felt and heard before
But never quite sure what it was trying to say
It carried on anyway,
It rhymed because it seemed sensible
But it was questionable whether it
Had any meaning,
A room with no floor but walls and a ceiling
What?
Are you sure you’re not looking at it
Upside down?
Surely it’s more appealing
The other way round,
Less falling into nothingness
The ceiling as a floor would be best
Or spinning really fast so you can’t quite fall
Because it catches you,
Hopefully no nails from pictures
In the walls
Because it scratches you
Spinning round
In a room
With no windows watching you.
Butterscotch table for two…
What?
It doesn’t make sense,
But for recompense it rhymes
I said that already I know
But I need certain lines
In there because,
Well…
You know why.
Ladders wrapping like snakes around the branches of
Trees
That could be climbed unappeased
Were it not for nonsense
The cycle repeating over time
Not pleasing but feasible
reasoning untangible
But more manageable
Like conditioned hair
More easy to bare
The sense that the
Dense trees of time
As they climb entangled with ladders like snakes
Or vines
in their hair
Mangled
They don’t make much sense
They just rhyme.
That’s just life.
And that’s fine.
What?
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 9:03 AM UTC
I used to keep my baby teeth in a butterscotch tin.
I guess I was making an investment
in tooth-fairy stock; trying to diversify my easter bunny portfolio.
Quarters: Like chocolate I could feed into a Coinstar and turn to dollar bills
which I could then use to buy more chocolate.
I just, hey, I just remembered that I have a butterscotch tin filled with quarters
sitting in the back of my closet right now. Funny,
when things move in circles like that--I can’t even remember
the last time I ate a butterscotch. Or even how my final tooth
came out, which I’d think would be a milestone.
I was eating an egg-salad sandwich when I lost one of the last ones--
I just took a bite and one tooth stayed behind.
For weeks I couldn’t even look at a sandwich,
I just kept thinking about the disturbing look of blood on mayonnaise.
I wonder if there’s much business for the tooth fairy these days--
my dad, winding blue ribbons around small stacks of quarters so they’d look nice;
my dad, stepping on LEGOs in the dark and stifling swears;
my dad, navigating bedroom geography to make a swift exchange
while I slept and turned a tidy profit, trading old small parts
for riches and a grown-up mouth.
Now I wonder what they did with my wisdom teeth,
after they pulled them out last year.
Were they drilled out, finally, into dust? Or did
a dental surgeon slip some pilfered teeth
beneath his pillow on the sly,
turning one last profit out of my face,
the summer someone noticed
I needed a grown-up mouth?
All I know is that for days
I stayed at home moaning into my pillow,
strung out on percocet and eating anything
that could be sipped through a straw.
(It was only then I discovered the Sonic had stopped
serving butterscotch shakes--years ago, apparently.
You’d think I’d have noticed. But then, you’d think
I’d notice lots of things.)
I wonder how much my teeth would be worth now.
I wonder if the tooth-fairy has adjusted for inflation.
I still get excited over stray quarters,
but now I guess I just have to find them on the street
like everyone else does.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 4:19 PM UTC
A Bountiful Sky for Foolish Old Men
early up, haunted-stoked~woked by a multilingual sky,
an impish childish creation of an immature god,
inconsistently incapable, of making up his moody mind,
whiny then smiley, cloudless besotted, morphed
into crystalline blue of a well behaved in Sunday best,
warming the souls of the begotten and the misbegotten,
the hardened and the poetic souls, tho he laughs at
himself, for he too is both, curmudgeon and a mr. softee,
whiny child in rapid aging body, wearing of discovery
of new places for to ache, pains that don’t fit med scales
of 1~10, unless it is the Richter Earthquake formulation.
despite all, his eyeballs seethe, immaculate degeneration still
allows the seeing of broad brush paint strokes of the team of
angelic artistes that do the detailing of the palette above,
how!
they, love their big bold brushes that sky swipe atmospheric
residue into 31 Baskin Robbins flavors, with swirls of caramel
chocolate butterscotch that make the man’s complaints whisked
into who-cares-a-damn anyway ice creamery reverie and all
that other stuff disbarred from the aborning morning clarity of
“good morning ole man, where’s my coffee” diurnal tuning that
the women hums, reminding those in the earshot crowd of one,
that s’mores and chores, tasks and at lasts, dogs need walking, gardens watering, cushions plumping, evening dishes moving from dishwasher onto wallpaper-covered shelves, geese-away-chasing, and loving poetry
by a poetoftheway scribbling…
8:01 AM Frieday, Jun 30
Jun 30, 2023
Jun 30, 2023 at 8:32 AM UTC
Butterscotch Dark Chocolate
Infused with rose quartz
dragonfly transfiguration elixer
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 2:12 PM UTC
They had thin arms and basketballs
Jokes and jackstones
I only had my lunch box
They were eating together
I was alone
Across me
A riff of tables and chairs
There were my classmates
Exchanging butterscotch
Their laughter rang
In the white sound, I could not even speak because
Love never needed to talk
It just needed to create sense in my mouth
My mouth was full. Stuffed with the tanginess of gravy
This is why lonely is my bliss
Grow
Fat but I belong
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 10:08 AM UTC
Seeing
Life
Explode
With Color.
To
Name
Them all
Would
Never
Fully
Describe
The magic
They emit
With
Each other.
Lemon butter,
Jade tide,
Bumblebee,
Butterscotch,
Pineapple Rush.
Blush Touch,
Pink-Peach Punch,
Lemonade Crush,
Cedar Peaks,
Cinnamon Coffee
Crunch.
Wine Soaked
Cherry Red.
Rosewood Sublime,
Key lime pie
Delight.
Followed by-
Gray Mist
Overcome
By Balloon Green,
A breath of Spring,
And Sunglow too.
It all runs
Through
And
Through.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 11:46 PM UTC
burnt morning. the breakfast was gone so I had coffee. The details of dolphins were the bathroom mantra; turning the eyes inside out.
Refolding the socks I realized a smell I hadn't in "years". The gas must have been avoiding me. A smell of butterscotch. Why I haven't been able to smell butterscotch is unknown to me.
I remember a turquoise flame when the bonfire burnt the old tire. No one was around so the fire was for me and me alone. Me and me alone.
I used to force the ***** down my throat and it seeped out my eyes in paint thinner tears. A faraway howl of a wolf--how bad ass. I was like the very-peak of a glacier come to reclaim me stomachspot in the Wild. Fortunes came and went and I began to melt. Ice cream in the hand of a toddler. Pink icecream in the hand of a giant who wouldn't take care of the courage when it looked so mediocre and small. It's about time the dark ghosts come to reclaim their nest, so come on, I'm waiting.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 1:03 PM UTC
I am from the towering oak and pine trees
That sway on the old forest’s edge,
Coyotes howling in the shadows
A haunting lamentation
I am from the creaky stairs and floorboards
At the house on Liberty Street,
From the ancient gas heater and its tendrils of flame
That never seemed to be quite hot enough
I am from the sound of my father’s voice
Heavy with sleep as he whispers to us
A late night bedtime story,
Scaring away the monsters under our beds
I am from Sunday mornings
Bursting with rays of golden light and
Filtering through glimmering church windows
Lingering on familiar faces
I am from ‘make good choices’
'Be a peacemaker’
‘You are greatness’ and
‘Oiaue!’
I am from the scent of Mom’s cookies
Chocolate chip and butterscotch
Melting away winters and
Warming cold hearts
I am from acrylic paint,
Graphite, ink and canvas
From smudged hands, stained clothes,
And a sketchbook full of scribblings
I am from the crisp chill of autumn
In the mountains of Vermont,
Staring into a sea of stars
As dazzling sparks float skyward in the distance
I am from the cool sea breeze
And the salty mist over the water
Waves crashing fiercely in the haze
Of Newport’s rocky shores
I am from the quiet peace
That can only come from the words
“I love you” and the warm embrace
That often follows
I am from endless words
Written with shaking, ink-stained hands
On crumpled bone white paper
Hoping to be good enough to keep
I am from weak muscles and fragile bones
From hesitant first steps and training wheels
From stubborn no’s and penitent yes’s
From late nights and shadowy eyes
I am from the past
I am from the present
I am from the trembling, changing
Pathway to my future
I am from this house
This family and
This home
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 8:08 AM UTC
the animated man moves with languid effect
against the scattered clouds of the sky far overhead
he walks at a slow stumble
on the oil stained pavement of suburban driveway
'this is where the light blue mustang was parked'
he is carrying a stone carved into the shape of a head
its mind leaning precarious over the edge of sanity
you can taste its butterscotch candy laughter
and its salt water taffy tears
its face frozen in apocalypse of conflicting thought
he moves along the dirt road
hemmed in by trees and wild growths
the humidity so thick you swim rather than tread
but the feral grin sewn into his face
with her needle and threads
is what moves her
she adores its primal bloodletting
a self contained self abuse machine
she leads the way down the dusty road
to the clearing where night children gather
to make celebrations to dark matter
and the things it spawns
her thighs tingle at the thought of dead flesh
and feasts of the eyes filthy mind
the images in her mind are never really clear to her
just **** flesh rubbing cold things
i am disturbed by her dark dream
seek to flee on wings of night
but fail as he arrives head in hand
and pronounces logical rules for the slaughter
this night has no end
just the rest of fitful dreams
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 7:15 PM UTC
my eyes opened to find
the thin lizard dawn gleaming
after the gutter drank its' fill
of the moon last night
the tambourine
buried in my lungs still
vibrating like these walls
papered with cheap roses
last night i found comfort the
only way i know how
in situations like this
beside a girl wearing
a pretty ribbon
twisted around her waist
pomegranate lipstick
wet clay & tragic glitter
smeared across her eyelids
we spent the night
roped together by
half-removed clothing
& my fingers third
knuckle deep
counting the pulse
of the heart
of the universe
while the wild fox
barked on the hill outside
& the mockingbirds
played riffs in the lilac bushes
her ******* ran tight
around her shins &
she sputtered the dark
lyricism of bees
twisting her tongue
backwards around
itself in my ear
our bare bellies
slapped together as
my tongue found her
tooth enamel &
the trees formed
a tight center loop to
harness the sky
for us & i
held my breath
waiting for her
to breathe first
i can feel her chest
& plump **** now
quietly throbbing
against the tight young
flesh of my back but when
i roll over & see her
eyes darting
green like a thin
ocean laser avoiding
my dynamic gaze &
her pouty mouth emitting
a pink yawn i can tell
she's unhappy & ashamed
of me
i tried to run
my fingers through
the butterscotch tumbleweed
of her hair but she just
popped her gum
& sent me
high stepping through
the soft warm mud
& chest high cattails
of her driveway
callow under the clouds
stuck like gnats to
the fly paper sky
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 3:58 PM UTC
It's kind of like when you want something sweet
And all there is are a bunch of old bitter hard candies
Sitting in your grandma's rusted bowl
On the coffee table in the dim living room and
That candy probably isn't there for eating but just for
Decoration or something,
So you pick one out anyway and it's not all that great
Even though that's exactly what you'd expect
But that little part of you said
"Maybe this won't be
another rock solid butterscotch chew"
Because you hoped this time would be different
But you thought wrong
And you'll probably end up eating another
Because it's
Better than nothing
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 12:19 AM UTC
I found it on the floor of
the women’s dressing room
after a concert.
The ladies were long gone
and I was clearing up.
It was one inch long and
the wings were one inch wide.
The dragonfly had
two overlapping oval wings
on each side
and a long curved tail.
The body and tail
were set with butterscotch
yellow rhinestones.
The wings held chartreuse stones.
Two white rhinestones were the eyes.
The quality of the stones
was extraordinary
though the setting
was not really gold.
When I took it to my office
to put it
in the lost and found
my extra many ceiling lights
made it sparkle
like in a jewelry store display.
I put it on a stack of tissues
I keep at the ready on my desk
so I could see it
any time I wanted.
When I moved my head
just slightly, it would make
the sparkles seem to move as well.
It made me very happy
just to look at it
and I have no idea why.
Nobody called to claim the pin
It’s value is likely very small
But it’s come to symbolize some of
The shiny things I hope to capture
In the time remaining of my life.
It won’t be long ‘til I
am forced to
spread my own frail wings
and fly
from this cocooned
career of work.
Perhaps the dragonfly
will be a talisman
and lead me to
the meadows
I have dreamed of:
awash in creativity,
accomplishments rewarded,
and never any gales
of jealousy
or the thunderclouds of
evil that
rattle my windows here.
On the day when everything
is packed and shipped, my
keys turned in,
lights turned off
for the last time
and I am free, I will pin the
dragonfly
to my collar and
and take us looking
for that meadow.
ljm
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 2:00 AM UTC
I can say definitively
and without reservation
that I once had more to say
and once I said it well
The taste of the words
of the children in flux
the ex-children
the children in recovery
leaves an aftertaste of
sweetness I can mimic
but cannot make my own
though I know I have
the recipe
somewhere
Their words tumble
like dusty pebbles racing
downhill rebellious
ebullient and unruly
avalanches to ants
while mine drag
the feet of their tiny
y's and g's
p's and q's
like rainy-day-slogged
future people
wending their way through
weeds and reeds of
bullies and written responses
The taste of the words
of the newly-minted
suddenly people
with centuries-old ideas
cellophane gift-wrapped for their
daily birthdays
beribboned and bowed for
kindergarten picture day
leaves a memory of
butterscotch and peppermint I can imagine still
but cannot make my own
though I know I have
the recipe
somewhere
Mar 19, 2012
Mar 19, 2012 at 8:58 PM UTC
Lord,
let me choke on a chocolate bar
or drown in an ocean of honey
that those who grieve my loss may say,
"His passing was tragic - but funny."
Then lay me out in a caramel coffin
with a marshmallow pillow 'neath my head.
Dress me in garments of butterscotch
and I shall eat sugar the days I am dead.
Tuck some toffees into my pocket
plus a few peppermints (for my breath...).
Put a raisinette rosary in my fingers.
I'll sleep in a sweet diabetic death.
When I draw near to the pearly gates,
St. Pete, greet me with Hershey in hand.
Give me my harp and halo of licorice.
I'll enter the promised Candyland.
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 1:36 PM UTC