Lots of loopy lemurs,
Coolly chilling cozily,
On a knoll or a knot.
Twirling, twisting tweezers;
Poor perplexed poems.
This is such sport.
For four fore.
This poem makes no sense,
On this we can agree.
But confusion always runs rampant,
On my manic Mondays.
So I bid you hold on tight,
If you’re on for the ride,
For sanity is so far from here,
You’ll have to build a rocket
If you want to return to the sane world.
