Wednesday, November 19, 2008

An Old Poem

Stumbled across this just a few minutes ago. It's a Mister Fweem Original.

I Call This Poem February

The wind is tired of biting

its toothless, slurping broth.

The trees are tired of being bare

and naked because of sloth.

The sun is bored with sugared snow,

and casting a pale cold light.

I’m not saying this to help you out,

but only for doleful spite.

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