By J.H Curtis
Some drivel
drooled
through the words of the page,
offending my time-pressed sense
of death or the bus
or something like that.
The molesting goop
that dribbled,
or drabbled,
a leaden scribble or scrawl,
sort of slumped
or oozed,
the bit of poo,
caught the toe
(of my mind, of course),
and I stumbled.
This drolling droolie doup
I found
was my own
dopey dumpling.
Shoot.
Clutching at Straws 