poem 6571

diet of wyrms, she said,
i truly had no idea:
'twas bits of creatures dead,
floating in diarrhea

i asked her once, and she mispoke twice,
so i asked her thrice again;
i cried in shock as she took the mice
and fed them to her best friend

sillyness incarnate,
folly wrapped in fleshly joy;
terror may escalate
when miss death herself plays coy

i asked her once, and she mispoke true,
so i asked her to explain;
with a grin she said she thought i knew,
then she flushed me down the drain

cast adrift in this sea
with no stars by which to steer,
lost, there's just only me,
marooned on this raft of fear.