Forsooth, Balcus, stand or croon,
Your landlord’s reindeer will be soon
With Gid. Paper trails? I think not,
Got Nebulae swiftly writing up
Those paper trails, come on.
Again you fander. Do not wail,
It’s been six months since you ate that snail
Love’s pounds add to your deficit
To which a bookmark swims beside your trench,
Eaten by carnivorous sea-dwelling creatures.
Milo, milo, milo, milo,
Your head is trapped inside that tree
Just stop hounding it, hound Leuconoe -
She’ll chop it off for a small fee.
You’re not very pretty.
How many clasps for the doghouse?
Heaps. The empire, or your empire, or my empire
Will fall without butter or toast
Or sandwiches or cheese,
Or greatest of cloakrooms fondling carefully
The darkness that isn’t syrupy at all
But kind of light; carry on regardless.
“To the State Department,” You yell orangely
At your only love, second movement;
Its fortitude thirded
Only by the swing of the cello.
Such as a forked Pharoah smiles, stunned
At his completed language device,
Other retailers cannot graph your love
As well as the average office product. But,
Turali! Turale! You love is indeterminable,
Like a genetically modified sea:
Compliant with all government regulations,
But militantly free.
You may ask, Balcus, once again,
Because not one of you has sung loud enough.
Busboy, nanny, driver, nun.
Caterer, writer, singer, thief.
Nullified by a raisin, drinking
Flyspray for relief.
The elocution of the eel, crossing out a month’s
Worth of pastry, pruned into an oblivious
Awkwidity, and throwing all chances of
Greaseproof delight far past the temple.
Subscribe to recant, that is my advise to you,
Balcus.
- GidDoctor Thutmoose, G.V.