By Irving Vanderblock-Wheedle.
It is a metaphor for things unseen,
A visible potato that engulfs
The counterclockwise rarity of leeks;
It speaks of soft alpaca fleece with thorns,
Of tapioca gravel in the alley.
Its music soothes my fevered favored flavored lavered labored wayward leeward lowered brain.
The curve receding infinitely marks
The infinite abysses of the heart,
And far below, or far above perhaps,
I hear some distant Swiss guy yodeling.
Let hundreds of these blossoms bloom at once;
Let all the roaring bathtub drains unite
And make one universe-devouring swirl,
As long as I can have my jelly doughnut.