Her hands were like spiderwebs, glistening in the rain,
But we all know her hands are actually lost in time.
The loud truck honked his horn quite ladylike,
And blushed a deep violet hue,
Mr. Tottins let loose a grand fanfare,
Played quite rudely from his bum!
Eyeballs roll and forces equate,
Shoes fly up and eat my cake.
In Paris I wandered on the up and up,
All shoes stay on the ground and diet.
Molly feels like lilac and cinnamon,
But no matter the contrast, she always sounds red.
What must throw up is eventually put down,
So cool it, chicken! Havin’ lime? Call us!
What good is a flower? It’s been hacked!
Hacked out of the ground and forced into water!
“Dear Molly, have some flowers. I love you!”
Now prepare for the Salem Witch Trials.
So Molly goes through it, and survives,
Which is sometimes good…
But her hands betray her, with their dry, leathery look,
And she flaps away into the night.
Flap, flap, flap.
And to the moon she goes, to shine like a gem.
Like a gem that’s been processed, milled, and made
To be unique like all the others; except!
Except! She’s left with a flaw.
And this flaw makes what this poem is not:
Perfection.
Home