Gord

2018-04-04 05:14 pm

Poster of an omen, toking,
Dreaming by a plastic ocean,
That most fast forward, hopeful;
King of post, tasks chosen,
Still lives Midas, hands golden.

Lapland where they dig holes,
Smoke weed and dance poles,
Kings of the foal, antsy, cold.
The older they grow, though,
He loses his power, cowers,
Curses feeling and eats.
Banishes his people of necessity,
Carelessly manages feeble himself,
Paddles the plastic ocean, relieved;
Departs common and flowers nothing.

Gord

2018-04-04 04:02 pm

Style lapland, cola,
A black knight broken,
All they dig is holes,
No pause.

I'm tsarnov of the rhyme,
I'm Midas of the pot,
With time running out,
And Race not lost.