Another evening passes
Like methane from our asses,
Like the motorist that passes
Bicyclists, slow as molasses.
It passes like a buck
And the fact that I wrote buck
Means I’ll spare you from future rhymes
Because you already get the analogy.
Another evening passes
Like methane from our asses,
Like the motorist that passes
Bicyclists, slow as molasses.
It passes like a buck
And the fact that I wrote buck
Means I’ll spare you from future rhymes
Because you already get the analogy.
Filed under Poems