There's a green alligator.
Lying on the bank out of the water,
His (or her) hide, a bilious green
And as it dries has a certain sheen.
If you find
a conch shell,
Discarded by the host
and others as well.
There they be
Little vegetable trees
Cut off in the prime of life
No telling their pain or strife.
Lies are misshappened truths
Intended to convert others to their view.
The prize be to destroy facts
As they shed false teardrops, anew.
Well dear Tara let me say
Perhaps the bigot had his way
Of entering into your mind
To affect what may not be so kind
Come walk with me over the hills
Where the lands are covered with scrub.
Beneath are veins that were once rich with coal
Now empty caverns dark, wet and cold.
To some its beautiful
‘Twas the hot weather
Likes of this they had never
Seen. Such a stew
That mother nature seemed ‘t brew.
Who can it be?
One with a message, certainly.
But wait, perhaps a bit of poignant thought
Or maybe memory overwrought.