prolix

Holy Mary, mother of god,
I sang a sad song down at the pub.
A wailing tune over by the schoolyard wall.
A caterwaul over by yonder.
A droning monotone in blue shades by the rainy tree,
a misty cry by the moors of merry olde scotland,
a grainy snort by the foothills of Antelope mountain,
a raspy plea by the salt marsh that dried up under the stark Mongolian sun,
a flighty breeze whisper by the seashore of Kent,
a rancid mouthwashy gargle by the creeks of sulphur down by Venus lake,
the razzy jazzed up flip of the tongue o'er by the grasslands with the prickly baobabs
a chancy racy number over by the soggy forests of Cherrapunji
a lip-synced pop song pulled out of a hat on a Brooklyn bound subway
an ear-piercing twang from the mouth organ on a tram bound for san fran
a handful of sonnets grotesquely blurted from my foamy mouth as the clouds surrounded me
hand over hand in sunlight.