Storm chasers and wheelchair racers,
Chantilly Lace sharing her pretty face,
Yes, far more than Authorsden flowers,
They move our galaxy to a better space.
Where winsome rockets make familiar words ring.
Andromedan vortex dreams of swirling worlds sing,
When sipping starry nights of Internet Valium fail us,
She is a butter-rum treat with a whip cream topping.
A serial killer’s just desserts of ladyfingers pert,
Fed Federal polemicists that stirred up the pot,
Weaved a stratagem of meandering menaces,
But when we failed to uncover a thickening plot.
The volcanic polentas went spewing,
With Irish potatoes, startled, stewing,
Sugar beets dished out a sweet affair,
Twas the recipe for disaster brewing.
Corned beefs and cabbages scorned,
Suffered major nervous breakdowns,
When the vegetable medley soup,
Added a little hamburger ground.
With kitchen utensils shaking,
Computers started awakening,
These writers wrote so darn much,
The walls of the den were quaking.
This poetess flying high above the world,
Buttressed her stories of facts and fiction,
Within courageously posted lionine lines,
A fairy tale in unarguably perfect diction.
Now these Blair witches’ metaphors simmer,
Their iron kettles of streaming imagery roiling,
In a flash of naughty brilliance words shimmer,
Stripped naked ambitions in our minds boiling.
Caught up in this peculiar strobe of light and shadows,
Running above all hope and fear she smoked our pot,
Vanity Fair photos full of tormented fire and ice burning,
Showed a perfect storm in words of a temptress in a teapot.