Poetry

Saturday, 4 November 2023

Space on Earth

 The virus kills human beings 99% are wiped out

The planet can become green again

It is authentic without doubt

Genuine number, the real Macoy

The Earth just did a twissler on you, oh boy

I can't wait to see what the sequel will be

Colour my Apricots like a banana tree

Bake all my forget-me-not in a pie

And say good bye to old mother Hubbard's cooking

Her Four and twenty black birds had to fly


I'm ready to witness the tipping point

When the ice berg turns, like a mountain of butter

Slipping under the occiptal nerves

Slicing a cross section of the human beart

And re-routing the brain

It will be like Art, man, too nude

The naked Earth bare and rude

covered with nothing

But jungle grass

like the day it was born

On its little ass

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