Chancing fate too late and then too soon
Dancing with the bait of fishing loon
Gait of something swoon
With the weight of nothing’s loom
It’s the trait of the wait for something coming soon
The junk heap on the moon
Or the front teeth of a room
The impending doom
It lay open to consume
Something to maroon
Crunchy bits of macaroon
Happened to slip thru while you were croon
Back in the alleys, filled with gloom
Cats are no allies to trilled buffoons, willed by the moon to hover the darkness; silently loom like a harmless balloon
The charm is the tune they use to peruse; to swiftly go thru an entire issue, with nothing to lose until the rickety trap claps back a tune, just like a cartoon
Not a moment too soon
Go get the goon
Rap with a prude, wrap me a prune, crap me a tune on your way back from taking your naps and checking the traps you set way back in June
Don’t stop by the saloon or drop your spittoon
This isn’t crops; the sun will drop soon
Get to your traps soon and to run may help too
Even in laps of dunes they flay the track’s divisible, fat boon
While you slip from the womb; lift up your fat lip while you trap your invisible raccoon
by Fartfist
Fartfist's Compendium of Artistic Expressions 