Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Kettle Calling the Pot Chartreuse
It was only the ice of the tipberg
When the upset was applecarted and
A sand was drawn in the line, though better
To curse the candle than dark a lightness
Or judge a cover by its book shelving
Off the flies toothed to the arm calling a
Posthole auger a posthole auger
Which was cracked at the dawn of down and hurts
In chaining a yank on the side bed of
The wrong partial wax of ball went pancreas down
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