by Mary E. Lowd
A gift for my mother on her 60th birthday
When the mighty peach doth approacheth,
Wield thy vorpal cats and their snicky-snacky claws,
All twill be avenged upon such floral spheres,
They were ne’er giants nor windmills,
Only the fruit of nonsense upon a platter.
So, slay yon peach!
And, with the owl’s runcible spoon,
Serve it to thy loyal cats, brave cats.
They will disdain it. But you may feast,
Knowing that no peach — so sweet,
and so cold — shall ever defeat thee.
So much depends upon it. And a wheelbarrow.
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