In a bit of a witty mood
Attitude becomes rude and crude
Flipping tables, tearing down stables
Preparing for morning cartoons
Full bowl of cereal unreels my lethal cerebral.
Toons blast till noon then on to serial killing the reaper.
Neither of us has the guts to spill but a collection of skulls to fill my thrill. Direction is lust, thrust, fulfill
Infection, it must, cuss then spill.
Spilt milk all over the floor and it shows
Tinted windows glassed over your souls
Splinted pinholes rashes clovers too cold
Tilted milk pours over watch it loathe
Copyright © Michael Mifflin | Year Posted 2019
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