The Trial of a Noncommital Wordict


Exhibit A

I hate the rate the candle burns,
The little bread my mettle earns.
I hit the bottom, bounced around,
Bit spittled bullet, cashed the clown,
And what I found on my way down
I hid away in brittle crown;
With sandled feet I greet my fate
I handle graying matter great.
Your Methodist mother fanned the flame
Two fists of fury palmed to tame
The addled thoughts of worried brain
A battleground of mad and sane.
A butter churn of fatty strain,
I bought the jury, turned the main
Like it could sway the verdict.

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Because Russ L asked

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