Wednesday, December 5, 2007



A cockroach lied, said
that a fuzzy-fur had been
mean to her, and she
took a reflecting dew-drop,
aimed a ray of light on her.

The fuzzy-fur could
not stand the lies, the pain she
bore. Kind and good, she
changed into a white, lace-winged
angel butterfly, who twirled,

and danced under blue
skies, folded her white wings on
nodding Queen Anne's lace,
and watched over fuzzy-fur
children, while sipping nectar.

The cockroach with her
lies, her nasty ways, spent her
days in mildewed, dank,
dark, deserted abattoirs
where she was left alone, to sulk.

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