The Cro-Magnon magnate
of sponge cake diversity
reared his ugly head last night,
just as I’d exited the bath.
I said “begone, damn caveman!
Get out of this place!”
The tremors in my voice
betrayed my cool exterior.
Wearing a towel at the time,
I had no use for losing any more
He leapt once, stood still–
leapt again and planted himself;
scratched the small of his back.
After some minutes of this,
he began looking around as though
he’d never seen the place before
(even though he’d clearly been there
for some minutes).
What a nut,
I couldn’t help but think to myself.
Untendered through dire circumstance, Felicia done bit the enlarged peregrine bug burrowing under Frenchie’s Bakery on Hydrangea Court, six exits from the McDonald’s on Nash.
Myself, I tend to bite the largess of the enraged siren-watchers (from the circuitous balcony-tenders on their vacation from daily toiling in the everglade-type peat bogs in lower Georgia (very obscure, you wouldn’t know about them)).
As it stands, very few individuals truly contemplate the serene orange-gargling once espoused by citrus connoisseurs a world over, and I have quite the time attempting to describe the passionate musings of madmen with more brains than common sense.