Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Hourlings: A below-par, nonsense poem dedicated to my very best friend Christianna Joy

Some instruments are resounding,
The Lost Boys were foundlings,
A human is a groundling,
And there are some creatures called Hourlings.
Hourlings make their homes in domed towerings,
They ride around on rats with wings,
They don’t believe in having queens or kings,
No, monarchy, democracy or any governmental things.
They make their living by whittlings,
They spend their evenings caroling,
They eat nothing but deep fried onion rings,
And that is why they are extinct.

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