Onionette of the Flautist Scholar
He's thinking of piping his better's pot;
he's looking for junipers on the moon—
he's surely aware his weed will rot,
given the matter, if not too soon...
(Sometimes he feels a garlic swooning;
sometimes he sniffs his mother's glue;
sometimes he blows his high-pitched crooning,
while sniffling lingers and tears accrue.)
You'd swear his reed was limp with spit;
you'd wonder why he used a reed—
you'd love his musical theory if it
weren't dopey and sleepy and sneezy. (Indeed.)
|