The lard was too hard.
“Thar wor a winter so severe
we ‘ad ta tek a bleedin'
pickaxe to it.”
I dream of building igloos.
Gleam of white outside,
interior wall would ooze,
dripping like dew.
Eyes stare through steam
to where fat fish stew,
while we dream of Easter
where winter will blow itself out,
among the bleak ides of March
Meanwhile days chip away.
Light lengthens, glistens on a lawn
daubed with frosted mist,
while the ghost of last nights lard,
congealed in the pan,
tightens its fist like grip.
13 Feb 11
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S3 is a winner
(not larry looking for a 10 lark)
thats the way uh uh uh uh i like it uh uh uh uh
Larry uh uh uh uh Lark (unknown to almost everybody)
Go on unknown...you know it makes sense
Larry senseless Lark
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