Herbert Nehrlich 2
Trickles - Poem by Herbert Nehrlich 2
The past is like a fog long gone,
its colour gray and white,
mirage or Al Capone con
it seems, so wholly right.
What we have missed is quite unknown,
twas etiquette and more,
meanwhile the little one had grown
just lunging for the core.
Gods are so fickle, though they know
the future of all things,
in cyberspace old fuses blow
and poets grow new wings.
I'd gladly lend my lingua
to mop up brash desire,
discard the dress and too the bra
and be prepared for fire.
I'd lick until the church bell tolls
your twins and then your cave,
forget the praise, the silly trolls,
get ready for the shave.
And if you don't quite grasp this mode
I say you go and strip,
then grab the duffles mother lode
and tease it with your lip.
Come Monday morn I shall await
the news of prophesy,
it is the gods who call the fate:
to be or not to be.
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