My Ruby Sandals
I’d soon disappear were mine Dor’thy shoes,
Fitted glass-sandals in apricot hue,
When clicked together ask wearers to choose,
Any fantasized place where dreams come true;
Outer-space, maybe, might orbit me right,
Closer to heaven and farther from here,
And death-grips wouldn’t need strangle so tight,
Since each dimension should have a neck-spare;
Or destinations, perhaps less stupid,
Where bunnies lay eggs while fat-men drink milk,
And arrows find fannies noticed by Cupid,
Whose boxers are made from Italian silk.
Nope, there’s no trouble afoot in my dome –
I’m simply sayin’ there’s no place like home.
- Just a fruitful vent (no judging) :)
Copyright © Phillip Garcia | Year Posted 2016
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