Is It Poetry
At Night, When The Frenchies Come - Poem by Is It Poetry
At Night, When The Frenchies come
They, the two, the wicked ones,
sit across from inside, one another
Smile too smile, lip to lip, After all,
is too deeply this plot...
You would do it to, if you could.
Pink wings they are, Yes you would.
The plot is thick in hot translucent pinks.
Do you hear, literal, liberal portraiture
when, all four, are squared, such
bunched corners, do all watch.
Ploping down..they blush it terrible,
they come, they plot even more.
The rich plot, they signed is pinks,
ink still runs wet.....shockedly..
It, is now blind to the two,
it still can think miserably,
while the two, Frenchies,
kill the day with the thief each night.
Heaven is as only the French, can they do.
and Benjamen's Franklin,
knows this much to be true,
French hot pink is each face.
Unlaced, comes such grace.
French marble eyes, look past you.
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