Cerebral Fallacies

Past five we die we huddle at a gurgling tea pot and hover around for signs of life none, someone says and we sip in unison crib crib and crib some more the yolk of the dress, the tale of the male the bitch in retort and her new consort, more sips of the soup when we emerge from the coup none is wiser still yet the huddle is more like a cuddle in a cup! past five

I judge you not for those typical words spoken- nor would I bear on you the truth-be-tolds; shall not commiserate on thy commonplace sighs, nor finger your misshapen trust- neither negate nor nuke those ridiculous love pangs, for such are the ways of love, that seemingly entire oceans of love can wash over yet not beguile the heathen, while mere drops of the early spray can completely drench and moisten the love bandits!