Is It Poetry
At Nite, When The Frenchies Come - Poem by Is It Poetry
at nite, when the Frenchies come
They, the two, wicked ones,
sit across from inside, one another
in smiles, After all,
is to plot...
you would do it to if you could,
pink they are, Yes you would.
The plot is thick in pinks,
you can hear, literal, liberal portraiture
when, all four, square, such
bunched corners, do watch
it plop down..they blush it terrible,
they will plot more.
The plot, they signed is pinks,
ink still runs wet.....shockedly..
It, i s blind to the two,
it still can think miserably,
the two, Frenchies,
kill the day with thief nights,
as only the French, they do.
knows this to be true,
French pink is face..
Unlaced, such grace,
when the French marble eyes, look into you.
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