Grab Bag Of Rhymes

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The thunderstorm rose over benighted knobs,
a tumult of angry, seraphim mobs.

Cassandra gibbered in the halls of Troy,
knowing the doom of a children’s toy.

Honeycomb planet abuzz with bees,
an invasion force from the Pleiades.

The pixies played in the flowers of her hair,
flitting about from tress to tress, hither and thither,
too happy, the Fae, to notice her empty-eyed stare
after the vile baron had his way with her.

Any body is a grab-bag of sorts
for the young ghouls hoping to play some sports—
for a baseball the cerebellum is just the right size,
and for bats they can use femurs from the thighs,
for mitts the lungs, and phalanges for the cleats,
and for the catcher’s pads there are plenty of meats.
For helmets a skull works quite well enough
if it can be cleaned of all that cerebral stuff,
and for the bases just use some  stitched skins
while the diamond line is made of stretched intestines.
There are no limits to what fun a body can provide,
so open it up,  young ghouls, and see what’s inside.

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