Push me, push me,
I don’t care,
tosh me, bosh me
any trash –
what’s wrong,
and what’s fair,
what’s spoiled,
and what’s fresh.
Grab my hands
and lovely twist them,
tight me strongly
in a vice grip,
gag my mouth
with your Elysium,
feed me it sip by sip.
Close my eyes
with palm or rag -
I don’t want to see
my future;
screw the darkness
in my head
make it just
to drink or chew.
Pour in gallons
tosh and bosh
to feel up
my poor ears;
but they won’t
ever slosh:
the deaf man
gossip no fears.
Yeah, of cause
you’re the boss
and great powers
you smell,
but I shout
the shortest toast, -
‘Mister Pu.,
just go to hell!”
22.01.2021г.
The toast
© Copyright: Серж Северодвинский, 2021
Свидетельство о публикации №121012306585
Свидетельство о публикации №121012306585
Рецензии