Friday, February 7, 2014

title to be disclosed at end of poem

The very best weavers were ushered, nay,
fed fried mars bars, crème brûlées, and wealthy toffee,
into the moot of all mooters. Pedestrians held sidewalk coupons of promise.

There was a history to the dungeon of missives locked and piquantly chained below,
some held by mysteries merely in sponge, or hay, too, bundled well.
And yes, nobody challenged the rubber bands.

This was not to be a hastily concocted deceit.
Furriers, across the globe, had been covertly juggled for wizened woolliers
of cotton candy, clearly an operation by military snipers of elderly persuasion with steady gaze.

All this, of course just His sweetening, or apéritif, for when His finale entrance from the glorious gates
finally did transpire--all those sugary seams loosened. Chocolate shells blistered,
oozing that caramel promised to for everyone to eat.

All His Candy Clothes Fell Apart And Around The City Streets Did He Dance To The Beat. <-- at="" be="" end="" i="" it="" of="" oh...sheeit="" poem="" span="" thought="" title="" to="" unclothed="">

Smarter than he thought or just lucky bastard?

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