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Pena, her little head clinking |
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Like a barrel of red velvet balls |
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Full past noise |
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Treats filled her eyes |
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Turning them yellow like enamel coated tacks |
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Soft like butter, hard not to pour |
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Out enjoying the sun |
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While sitting on a turned on waffle iron |
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Smoke billowing up from between her legs |
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Made me vomit beautifully |
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And crush a chandelier |
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Fall on my stomach an' view her |
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From a thousand happened facets |
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Liquid red salt ran over crystals |
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I later band aided the area |
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Sighed, oh well, it was worth it |
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Pena pleased but sore from sitting |
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Choose to stub her toe |
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An' view the white pulps |
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Horribly large in their red pockets"I'm tired of playing baby", she explained |
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An' out of, uh, blue felt box let escape |
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One yellow butterfly the same size |
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Its dropping were tiny green phosphorous worms |
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That moved in tuck an' rolls that clacked |
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An' whispered in their confinement |
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Three little burnt scotch taped windows |
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Several yards away |
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Mouths open to tongues that vibrated |
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An' lost saliva |
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Pena exclaimed, "That's the raspberries" |
