A Soggy Story
There once was a little boy,
Whose imagination would not rest --
Cursed or blessed?~ was difficult to say.
Some journeys were only fantastic-play:
Sliding down waves, shaking tentacles
With friendly octopi – but there were those, also
Instructive, like the flying fish, who could not fly --
Sort of on the surface, would just lie~ and cry. Try as
He often did; not one scale would elevate...even
Garnered Gale’s windy' berate. Proud of her churning,
Dislodging force – with that little fish, like whipping an
Expired fish-horse.
Then a trumpet, from an angel on high:
Opened in the sky, a bright, sunny eye. No sense to
Tear, little brother – one added drip to an ocean, cannot
Not change a dip, for more of the same slop – one more salty drop will
not lift aloft a repetitious, soggy flop. Realize, from the top, a new world to see –
Now, will yourself some real wings...as did the crab his legs, and go for eternity!
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