Zita,
You think my laptop talk is off the wall?
I wasn't masturbating (much) at all.
'Discovery' has chimpanzees in bras.
TV's the pimp exploiting hairy stars.
I look, I think, I itch, I scratch, I rhyme
eating papaya spiked with salty lime,
train my trochees, let anapests free off the chain
and shout at all my iambs: march again!
Dumb spondees wait - hold back, chimp-brained, they
try damn hard, but cannot run and play.
Rollicking dactyllic lines with the feet all ordained,
speak from the stage of heroic excitement unchained
and then it's exeunt. I've thrown my hex.
We're back on terra firma after sex.
So dear Zita who has spurned the chimp,
this lap-top poet's lines now hobble and limp.
I am done. Now offer your opinions,
but be warned - ya gotta know yr onions.
Ya all,
Let us invite more onion prosody.
Peel some lines and hang them on the tree.
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