Wednesday, 22 August 2012

Fruits Are Filling by Erik Kennedy

Stupid me, a jack in the bogs,
the man who tried to woo his fruits!
Dull and numb I was, and null and dumb they became.
Nothing grows in Lyndhurst. Who knows why?

Every berry heard my merry-andrew monologues,
and all they did was burst,
in the heat, or under my boots. Always the same.
Now all the fruits are picked. I put them in a pie.

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