A New Poem By Todd Swift In The New Year

Loose Thinking in The New Year

Gentlemen prefer fronds.
Frown and lose the race.
Relations are a poor man’s lineage.
Line up to be slapped.

Slappers make the funky chicken
look like a licking gone blonde.
I like a popsicle rammed
up my jet.  Hole in one, ace.

Venturing to say more, I walk
not run.  Run on sentences  in poems
get called differently, are
enjambed.  I prefer marmalade.

What the Madam said
when the butler got splayed
was laid out in one.  Twice,
we’ve had one.  Where is three?

Over there, almost spelled,
but moved about, the letters
as in Scrabble, which is a fame
too many people ply, okay?

I am warning you, cut it out
or I’ll have to paste you
on the toboggan, which is snow
way to go, if you ask me, kid.

Kidoo or skidoo, slide down
the slope, as everyone knows.
The face of the Terre is
a woman, the moon gawps upon.

poem by Todd Swift, January 5, 2013