Newspaper cones of nuts

The stars a sprinkling of pale pepper

on the black salt of the sky
the moon’s a sliver of pungent onion
and hardly a tear in any eye
let’s sit here and share newspaper
cones of nuts and watch that guy
string hollowed out bones into a skeleton
that can barely breathe or die.


The earth is round like a roll at supper
and a crusted fruit plate pie
the sun’s a bun in gold and crimson
done to a turn when it gets high
let’s sit here all cosy and super
share the air, just you and I
they’ll be coming, that’s for certain
and we’ll join them by and by.


You can take the side of a pauper
but not all rich men can sprout a lie
the salt of the earth gets no cinnamon
and bread crumbles when it’s too dry
the stars are kernels for the popper
and moon’s butter to a gluttonous eye
or it could be a sliver of onion
rotting in the heart of a skeletal sigh.


Suns and moons, buns and dippers
change nothing, all rules apply
large ships sailing the high oceans
mean nil to small merchants, and fry;
eat the peanuts, dig no deeper
can’t get closer so don’t even try
and shred the paper, don’t smooth open
otherwise the headlines make you cry.




Shared for OLN @ dVerse