Mornings, Pooetry, War

Saturday Morning War

It’s time for me to take a ride.
Blasting nutty chunks from my hide.

Thunderous plops and monsoonal waves.
One by one exploding from the bog cave.

If this were war it would be a ferocious battle.
Even the porcelain had begun to rattle.

Tanks, battleships and submarines.
Everything’s getting destroyed there’s no in between.

So forever more this day shall be remembered.
When Poopooshima bombed, and troops dismembered.

Pure Pooetry

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