Fool's Gold Poem by obinna tochi

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Why would you die the die of the drying mountain?
In this forgettable field of the foreign farm -
Dancing the death dance of the dying dandy,
In the midst of the monocle manmade market,
Of this sardine-sailor in the sad sea of sorrow.


Living the life of the low lower lake,
Within that wild-wide-wise wonder of a wandering woman,
Big enough to be her boss of boss bag.
Vying for the very vacancy in vacancy,
As if they care for the country, they cravingly crave for.


Greeting that great gang of the granny gong,
As they kick their kinky key at that knoll of a keeper's knee.
Jogging pass the junketing jug in a jet speed,
Not even as they navigate in their nanny navy neuron,
Which houses the heavy half hell of this huge heart.


The pinky purple pear in her passing pass, ponders on
The Yankee yam of a yacht in his yelling year of grace.
Zipping, zapping the zoo of mountains in her zenith,
Quibbling in the quick defense of a questionless Queen.


Teaching taproot of a thinking tank and the thanking tar.
Rating the rattling rat, raking the ranting rag,
In this xenophobic xanthoma caused by xenogenesis in Xmas.