For the last time young lady,
it was just a little spat.
Which led to some sparks.
Even the moon got beady.
Yes I was crying and 'weeping' .
You would too, you know?
How dare you call it croaking.
Girl, that's a low blow.
I know that, often since eternity
I've vowed to revoke his longevity.
But calling the night his hearth isn't fun.
Me and the sun aren't done.
Also,
What's this about mingling toes and girth?
Yours truly, Mother Earth.
YOU ARE READING
The Good place
PoetryThis is a collection of all the poems I've written about everything I'm curious about and more. Literal pitstop is the pen name I write under on WordPress and Instagram.
