The locusts focus on the hocus pocus,
soaking us, cloaking us
with crocus
as grog-drinking frogs wearing togs
ride dogs through bogs,
clogging the cogs
which grip the zips,
ripping the sipping lips,
nipping chips
as the ship slips,
clipping the eclipse
turning snarky sharks dark
as marked quark bark
in the lark’s park
where cunning nuns run
with buns and guns
having fun under the sun,
stunning the sons
who won’t pay to play
with clay in the hay
during their stay in May,
slaying the fey
no matter what I say
on any given day.
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