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March 19

Where do your lusted lips lay when the moon skirts through,

When the the owl sweeps searching

for his ill-fated shrew?

Do they sit softly

On the curvature of your mouth,

Or are they pleasantly pursed

Staring at your latest foul mouse?

 

Scanning in the dark the radar goes out,

They say, the cyclical act that keeps the species

At bay, so you sweep on,

searching for a kinky prey,

O’ where where doth thou shrew lay?

 

Furrowed sweetly under tender limbed leaves

A hairless tail waves persuasively.

Nothing now can stop the owl’s ears, cocked.

Swiveling towards his long lost endeavor.

Puffing his chest, a hunger grows,

Lasered, quick, he swoops mighty low.

 

Heed this day, for the innocent will cry,

When his neck doth turn, Juliet will die.

Published inPoetry

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