Travellers smoke dirt
knock my damn drink over, simp
—yes, frogs hibernate
Underwater chums
Plink nocturnal digits lightly:
Unleash winter’s bun
Into the old pond
from out of the sky it fell,
a loaf of bread—plop!
Ten tiny swans swim
(at reasonable prices)
the river of death.
Trilobites are like
all the Zeuses at the steakhouse
—filthy little slut.
