Monday, April 30, 2007

Vogon Poetry

I gaze and slurp at the willowing smashy
palpitating undone, wandering, running
like a smoking figgly, not frothy or smoot.
Alone, it dashes up the spindly spine of roont.
Don't frondle my scattertooth, I say.
I willen haven hopen it stay.

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