"sprecht" poems
The Limber-Bricks
There once was a booklet of verse,
so city it needed a hearse,
The pages were scraps,
The rage felt encaps-
sulated a need to rehearse.
That tattered old booklet was found
Down-trodden, brow-beaten, aground
the gutter drain oceans;
With sewagic potions.
How much better it was does astound!
How many more? The crowds asked upset.
But the booklet with droplets did sprecht:
Is there any for topsy?
Or scurvy? You’ve got me!
It’s lyrical typhoid instead!
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 8:39 AM UTC