Half-roll thunder wailed, it's dog unassuaged
cause high puff failed, raw meat was so afraid.
Manna! Manna! All that's left is argol;
the stars have fallen, we have lost our soul.
The baggy-eyed throckmorton then detrained,
with his horned retinue singing his fame.
The happy silent ones, did smile and sing,
knowing what the long hard road would then bring.
His proclamations dashed upon the land.
The numbers were happy, the melody grand.
But half-roll thunder calls him pariah,
not pleasing and not quiet, nor messiah.
The ladies were shocked, a parade of cries,
the poor notwithstandings a bridge of sighs.
The triumvirate of penguins then spoke,
suddenly I did laugh, seeing the joke.
Share
Print
Save
Follow
Ron