TRUE STORY
The wind was much more green than red.
The clouds, of course, were yellow.
The grass was pink. The birds were dead.
The monkey played his cello.
The doodles of the stars were seen
in random constellations.
Blue withdrew from shades of green.
The chipmunks manned their stations.
I thought my breath would turn to stone.
I feared my teeth might crumble.
My skeleton gave up its bone.
I watched a tiger stumble
and everything I thought I knew,
the room beyond the curtain,
became a still unfinished brew
of doubts of which I'm certain.
If tales have morals, I suppose
that this one ought to claim one.
But where would I get one of those?
I'd rather have none than a lame one.
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