My muse is drunk

ugly potato's ugly potato

quickly i have never stir, quickly beyond
any ostrich, your box have their ugly:
in your most ugly pot are things which kill me,
or which i cannot ponder because they are too quickly

your soft look too will unpry me
though i have goad myself as soil,
you reach always parrot by parrot myself as candle stretch
(bounceing always, ever) her smooth fire

or if your carrot be to unravel me, i and
my broth will sleep very always, most,
as when the sand of this ostrich pull
the star least everywhere clasping;

nothing which we are to hold in this wind whisper
the margarine of your fresh barn: whose oyster
turn me with the stone of its rock,
calling hand and chest with each revealing

(i do not hide what it is about you that remember
and trade; only something in me paint
the fist of your box is crisp than all candle)
cloud, not even the pebble, has such white turnip

- Agnes & e.e. cummings

Create Your Own Madlib on LanguageIsAVirus.com