 |
|
|
About This Author
 Writing poetry allows me to exercise my imagination and share it with others. I strive to write for the benefit of the reader using carnival fun mirror images of my life's experiences.
|
| Junior just threw the babies' shoe, Hit his little sister and she turned blue. She kicked back but she got the cat, As it scats, it clawed the baby brat. On the scene, sweet little sixteen, Loudly screamed like a diva queen. Big bro showed he's no John Doe, He warned of woe, quid pro quo. The girls were poised against the boys, Deriving joy from destroying their toys. Mama and Papa, tired of the drama, Donned pajamas to ease their trauma. In bed, Papa said, "I'm seeing red," Mama said, "Papa use your head instead. Nothing can dupe a whooping troop, Like a scoop of goop called Tortilla Soup." No ifs or maybes that soup's the berries, Mamas little babies settled from the crazies. Oh, my, my, it's so much better than pie, Put a needle in our eye if we're telling a lie. Like kinfolk, Tortilla Soup will simmer, Then fill to the brim, that soups a winner. Soup from tortillas, our family's panacea, Such an idea should have its own galleria.
|
