To Poetry Soup
To poetry soup
I shall stick
Until I start walking with a stoop,
To and fro patrolling with walking stick.
On my fingers the soup
Forever my fingers I lick:
My fidelity to the group
Until my still bragging shoulders droop.
What I see in poetry soup
Are buxom hens in a coop
You can’t but many yearn to pick
And not a single one aside kick.
On her Good Poetry you snoop,
Soon, round your neck a loop
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