ROASTING A SERIAL KILLER IN THE CHAIR…(Kate Clifford)

Rode a jackalope, walked the high mountains,

Stood underneath a great big head,

Or gave it, we can only guess, yes that’s what I said,

A serial killer in her own “write” she has become,

Watch her drink that rum till she becomes quite numb…

Katy has many moods, could that be why she ingests “ludes?”

She writes in the dark, she does so in the light,

Children too, receive her blessings, poetry for kids, yes she might,

She has yet to grow past the 60’s in her heart, a hippie with a multicolored pipe…

Nothing can anyone say regards Mz. Katy’ private realm,

Short of the fact she is there, living in it daily, writes on Nature,

Yes she does write of the occasional elm,

But her series on the demise of certain poets,

That was and is her forte’, now in her garden she grows it…

So beware future poets, her quill is sharp and she has lots of ink,

Don’t dip her pigtails into the inkwell or learn of her wrath,

In the, of the eye, a blink, she will send you down a wayward path,

So plug in that chair, get the sponge=soaking wet,

Tonight we make another roast, this time in her own sweat…

                        © ed – 6/4/04