Nonsense Poem

A preponderance of words
That echo in the ground,
Are often never seen,
But almost always found.
 
It seems they want so much,
But only give out soap,
Which congeals inside a bottle,
Made of ever winding rope.
 
You get gravy in your shorts,
When you see that great big brain,
As it wobbles and pulsates,
And nibbles on the grain.
 
Surely it’s the smell
That’s emitted from your hairs,
Which calls to all the people,
And shouts at them and swears.
 
Spitting at the gardens,
And pointing at the birds,
And all of this because
Of a preponderance of words.

Enclosed Open Space ►

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