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I am grateful that you up
And put me in a crate, tied me in a name,
And, if a little tentatively, sent me to the market,
Whereupon they yelled: “Hark, it

Speaks in its box!” Speaks all it can afford --
A few lashings out in hyperbolic spurts
And even through its teeth
It flirts, it flirts!

Among the loud, drunken crew,
I huddled by the purse I drew
Upon my lips which nearly frowned --
Their speakeasy interest underground.

Unwrapped I was next to squashing bards
Brushing off shards of what life discards.
I could tell each fellow was a dilettante
In women and poetry; for, the font

Upon their crates was so lazy and loose,
Dreary and blurred where rains sluice.
From a variety of exotic travels,
This cursive feasibly unravels.

And I am stopping at the factory,
Where facts of grim are oft turned out.
My stymied curls spill out the crate –
The intransigence of the trait.

This poem is Copyright ยฉ screwge