Sickle cell of a soul
with a chrome dome:
A giant egg.
A plate of rhymes lead edible,
incredible, up your leg.
Words repeated and seated,
these words in lip stick.
Stuck on you.
Words are bad for the heart.
This pauper can not afford you
but applauds the efforts
of a throne placed on an old dust cart.
Sit, my Regina.
You shoulda seen her.
Even the rats let out a plague soaked tear
and drowned in the beer of camarderie.
Malarkeys with you mean the world to me.
Galavanting, sauntering and taunting,
teasing and pleasing.
Easing ourself into a love with words.
Without words we would have nothing.
Without words we would have-
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