I think it was the harvest month
We grabbed our baskets and begun this
Quest for produce rife with rhymes
Ripe with color on the vines
That’s when I came upon a bowl
filled with fruit, or I was told
By another who had keener sight
For seedy bounty in the night.
So color blind, I thought to pilfer
For I thought it gold or silver
I reached and there I felt a flange
And peeled it back like an orange
A sweetly pungent mist arose
curled my lips and stung my nose.
My cohort called my basin purple
Which I stole, albeit hurtful
To its owner, who’d think me ruthless
But despite the spoils, my theft was fruitless.
I beseech you eschew poems ill begotten
For those sewn with bad taste are reaped as rotten.
No comments:
Post a Comment