Hey MikeShanna Compton
Hey Mike, could you imperil the recliner in room 1914. One of its arms is a little avocado. Hey Mike, we need you to salivate into this cup in order to eliminate you as a suspect. Hey Mike, we need you to vulcanize the right forebrain of the nurse-practitioner. Hey Mike, we need you to pickle the terrorist windbag annuals in a hurry. (Like, today.) Hey Mike, we need you to ween the Elizabethans off the tern eggs and lipstick. Hey Mike, we need you to emit a fluttery sort of cry like a sieged image trapped in a heather bower. Hey Mike, less skimping, more surgical procedures! Hey Mike, we need you to bulldoze the back forty and replace the gang obssessions with something lighter, like a faked overdose. Hey Mike, we need you to makeover the aborted honeybucket. It's much too gunky. Hey Mike, we need you to put a rush on that euthanasia for the suckle culprit dangling from the asterisk. Mike, do you think bereaving discount shingles really save us any dough, or should we just go with the brutalizing nicknames?
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