Scope is the drink sans pleasure
That always burns a hole
And stings your gums -and have you heard
It's worse than vile gall
And Listerine is more absurd
And sure your tongue to harm
Yet mouthwash wasn't meant to hurt
Like an acidic storm
Therefore imbibe with caution and
You'll find that you agree
Another beverage there ne'er will be
So full of caustic glee
For Brian Strand's "Adaption" contest
Parody of Poem #254 - "Hope" by Emily Dickinson
Poem #254 by Emily D ickinson
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.