Random Pickle Poem
I like to eat pickles and rhyme.
And tackle gravity from time to time.
A plateful or wishes and strawberries.
Are all the day carries.
Delicious chips which crunch like old pipes underground.
That give us a chuckling sound.
I like to eat pickles that rhyme.
As I hurt with slime.
Try to make a poem sandwich.
Whatever that means to a light switch.
Fall asleep because of dust.
Wake up due to picture frame rust.
I can’t make a poem make sense.
So I take the poem for a rinse.
He goes into the bath I made on a whim.
His chances of escape are slim.
Because it’s poisonous starch in this water.
I did it for the writing fodder.
I have enough to write about these days.
While carving out a pickle haze.
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