Monday, October 13, 2008

Acrostic Poem (on Pumpkins)

Peter, Peter…well, perhaps he was a cannibal.
Unforthcoming is the rhyme - does not tell
More than it means to say. Sort of like the gourd
Plump and glowing in the fields, oddly orange,
Keeping to its selfsame shape, its own hearth-warm orb,
Indulging none with any word: and so we set
Nimble Jack's candle into it, quite lit, you see,
So further deepen the gourd's seat mystery.

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