Regular Trixie Poem by Timmy Curran

Surrounded by a granite bowl
filled to the brim with granola and coal,
meant to make cement from fresh yogurt,
strong enough to withstand a load,
yet frail enough for repair further down the road,
to be great one needs vats of bleach

Walking with a waddle from his latest jettison,
in which he expelled into some local tin,
Trixie strolls down to the nearest inn,
asking for some space to relieve all his sin,
and a map to a small hill to reach

Regularly regular, he couldn't make it to the room,
he pulled down his pants and demanded a broom,
looked to the sun and called it the moon,
and dug a country sized hole to be later exhumed,
when the swamp is a hotel on the beach