Her arm it’s made of wood; a teak or oak perhaps?
Brown too light for mahogany,
thoughts are one could always stain it to achieve.
The cedar pink desired effect of timbre.
One last good scrubbing
and a fresh layer of skin is what she never needed.
Her killer blinks out loud I turn away before it's said,
and it’d do nicely as a table leg.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
this at least deserves a splinter of applause. bra....... thanks for sharing. :) bri