The Welsh Moron

The finish line recedes as fast
As all the milestones I’ve passed
Until at long and weary last
I recognize the stick
One end of which atop my head
Is tied with twine; from t’other, thread
Suspends the treat toward which I’ve sped
So long my tongue is thick
And arid, but the die is cast
And though I know I won’t be fed
I crave at least a lick
Confound this cartoon trick


About Michael

Silliness is good
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