Drumroll...
They search for stars among the puddles of
the various ways to Mornington Crescent.
Across the moon a blade-like cloud, incessant
Manhattan, Margarita, Molotov.
Whose are these bones whose bones we keep
or motte and bailey? Keep or cast aside?
Bright green grass that drips insecticide.
Drowsy syrup. See bee deep sleep. Weep.
Our island hearts are battered at the shore,
a Pollyanna-ish polypore,
O, bracket, O, crust, O black staining whore!
Hope you don't mind the reveal Andrew, I'm still atoning for my initial skepticism. Thank you, this was good fun. In order the lines were: Andrew, Ann, me, Ann, Walter, Ann, Andrew, Ann, me, Walter, Ann.
Phew...
Edited to fix Ann's last line.
Last edited by Mark McDonnell; 07-18-2018 at 01:38 PM.
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