Rose is sore. Read
round her Miranda bouts
with two dribbling lips spilt,
she can't keep mum.
Violet sings blue
pulp in gory detail,
worried others might slip
rat-a-tat out.
Sugar makes sweet
drops for daddy D.A.
He'll dab her soft pleas, trade
tissues for grime.
And so do you
wanna quit with the stale?
Meat-grind us to where dame
Whimsy got oft.
3 comments:
hahaha!
this is fantastic!
and if all the critical comments were presented in this way, we had a better world...
i loved the way the addressee is revealed in the last stanza...
So as usual I had to read and re read your poem to soak it all up. Thought it was clever entertaining and slightly erotic. Then I looked up doggerel which led me to double dactyls and onto clerihew and back round again to here. Now I know... this poem is freaking genius!
@human I could start a whole new school of literary criticism :).
@Hazel I think there's more freak than genius in me ;). I'm glad it stands up to multiple readings and was interesting enough to spark research. I had to look up clerihew myself.
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