Sunday Scribblings #199: Yes

yessy girls all
hibbly bibbly
in their moats,
toasting the aftermen,
physical specimens
of glandular gloat:
hip-flasking
the geriatric tenderfish,
misaligning the pigeon toes
of fossil fame, casting
new light on the limes
in the barrows:
unguentine-perishable
fruit, the dipsy doodle
parade, gallivanting
in tinseltown,
tinseltime,
tinsel instigations,
while we wile
the rest of the connotations
down the drain.
Meet me at the bus bench
if you doubt
the diagnosis,
a blistering critique
of the whetherwear
in the last row.
She flashed her
jellies &
the race was on
to see which
way the dilly
dallies.
Rusticants all,
cherry time,
passive improper
fractions baiting
the Astrodome of flesh,
the Superdome of boggle.