Open-Mic Readers, April 2017

April is national poetry month.  Poetry is the voice of the people, so, to celebrate this annual event, the Willow Glen Poetry Project invites the audience to share two poems, one by a favorite poet, and one by the reader.  In April, we have no ‘featured reader’ because we are all the featured readers.

And poets are like cats, very individual, very ‘unherdable,’ if I may say so.  As you can see from the list below, some folks read a single poem, either by a famous poet, or by him or herself; some read two poems by a famous poet, or two of their own.  It is always a delightful mix, from Elvis Costello to T. S. Eliot.  Here is what we heard:

Dennis Richardson “Wild Geese,” by Mary Oliver; and “Universality”
Nick Butterfield “PTSD,” and “Vet,” read by Dennis Richardson
Christine Richardson “On the Subject of Poetry,” by W.S. Merwin
Amy Meier “The Secret,” by Denise Levertov
Bert Glick “Thanksgiving Nightmare,” by Julia Vinograd
Erin Redfern “Phone Call,” by Tony Hoagland, and “Miracle of the Roses”
Sandip Bhattacharya “The Heart,”‘ by Mary Oliver, and “The Tall Distance”
Dennis Noren “In Our Craft or Sullen Art,” by Dylan Thomas; and haiku
Diane Moomey “Ode to my Socks,” by Pablo Neruda; and “Podiatria”
Jerry Dyer “Panhandler,” by Franz Wright; and “Tous les jours”
Eike Waltz “A London Hairy Tale,” and “Butt Naked”
Jeanine Corneliussen “New Lace Sleeves,” by Elvis Costello; and “Finding Clarity”
Lita Kurth “We Lived Happily During the War,” by Ilya Kaminsky; and “Mother of all Bombs”
Larry Hollist “Abd el-Hadi Fights a Superpower,” by Taha Muhammad Ali; and “Sorrow”
Katy Caselli “Walking the Hall in Circles”
Lesa Medley “Two Countries,” and “Gate A4,” by Naomi Shihab Nye
Jeffrey Leonard “First Sips,” by Larry Snydal; and “Remembering Rosie Hamlin
Jim Russo “Ode to Santa Cruz,” by Robert Sward; and “Barbara Lee”
Keith Emmons “The Waking,” by Theodore Roethke; and “The Teapot Speaks”
Dave Eisbach “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” by T. S. Eliot; and “Encounter”
Judith Schallberger “Beethoven Quartet,” by Linda Pastan; and a haiku
Hank Millstein “Where Life Awaits,” by Charles Gibbs; and “Apologia Catholica”
Renée Schell “Spring,” by Edna St. Vincent Millay; and “For Kaylan, Who Likes Maps”
Jenny Luu “Leaves Compared to Flowers,” by Robert Frost; and “Autumn Leaves”
Pushpa MacFarlane “Seventy Anyone,” by William Stafford; and “Redwood Sapling”
Floi Baker “Last Night I was Sleeping,” by Antonio Machado; and “The Breeze at Dawn”
Casey FitzSimons “The Owl and the Pussycat,” by Edward Lear; and “The Still Creep of Sap”

Poets, please let us know if our list needs corrections or additions. Names and titles are easy to miss in the excitement of the evening. Especially this month!

The Teapot Speaks

Keith Emmons

We think this is a teapot.
This is a family of five on Christmas morning, at breakfast – smell the fresh tangerines!

The black scorchings from the stove.
The spout, neck of a squab, demands worms;
its squawk has obliterated differences.

Tin mines of Bolivia, roofs of tin-topped huts
sweep around a tiny dark lagoon.
This tea water flows from Borneo.

This teapot has a cap like:
hummock of ice; like
a toadstool top; like
a swelling of dawn;
like a symphony crescendo, at the moment of puncture . . .
the triangle; like
a torpedo – nose of detonation; like
a black funerary urn on a hilltop; like
a breast; like, somewhat like
the cap of a teapot.

Put a feathered stick to this handle
and no Zen master could miss the bull’s-eye.
Sitting immobile, this teapot gong resounds.

Who has riveted these struts for the handle?
Who has received this squat pot as a gift?

The children complain. They don’t want tea.

The presents wait. The fragrant pine
mingles with the tangerines and steam.

If leaning back, stroking my beard,
considering this teapot obesity, my rocking chair
dumps over backwards, can I say
I am over here, the teapot there?

Is this my reflection? I can’t even make it out.
Why does no one wash this teapot? And you poor thing –
you’re dented.

You are a curling ball. Players frantically sweep your path;
In a spy intrigue you explode.

You are a mine.
You are the writings of Chairman Mao.

At the table the mother weeps small wet teapots.
The young son smiles at the children. He knows about
impatience, mines, and Christmas: he has
one foot.

“When I was a boy! . . .” begins Father.

One hundred million years ago the brontosaurus reared.
Tumbling off the mountainside came
teapots the volcano spat.
Thus may a teapot put dinosaurs extinct.

You have killed a man!
You have killed a thousand men.
At a birth, you were passed from shaking husband hands
to an efficient country midwife.

Cézanne grips a spatula, legs splayed.
In Vermeer you repose among rectangles.
Is this Louis the Fourteenth’s hand?
Green tea is frothed with a bamboo whisk.
Did you end the war? Hirohito signs.
On the steppes you could have saved a thousand lives.
Did you hear the humming of the lonesome wife?
You serve Earl Grey’s with madeleines in Manchester.
Among austere Benedictines, you whistle.
You pour black coffee for Van Gogh’s miners in the Borinage.

Dali puts an ant upon your nipple.

You are among many neighbors, in a dark cabinet.
A mouse with twitching whiskers crouches. In his eye
is a luminous teapot.

If you were not a teapot, I would say continental Africa
is on your side.
Is this a dent or Borneo? Red and blue Chinese fish
circle in your waters.

You are a lesson in geography. To understand you
one needs an atlas.
You are on his shoulders now.

You, teapot, you boil in the minds of the children.
They dash, scattering tangerines. The son
hobbles to the tree where presents are heaped
like teapots.

“When I was a boy . . . ” concludes Father, “I was a teapot.”

 

 

Open-Mic Readers, March 2017

 

Keith Emmons “Moondrifter Reverie”
Larry Hollist “Death of a Nation”
Joe Navarro “Animal Behavior”
Lesa Medley “On Leaving Maui”
Deborah Kennedy “Sisters”
Dennis Richardson “Desirable Weights for Men”
Diane Moomey “Verandah”
Eike Waltz “La Gioconda”
Bert Glick “For Linda”
Jim Russo “Whole Foods”
Barbara Saxton “In Concert”
Jerry Dyer “Traffic Report”
Amy Meier “My Back”
Dana Grover haiku
Dave Eisbach “Surprises”
Jeffrey Leonard “Satisfaction”
Judith Schallberger haiku/ tanka
Karen Franzenburg “The Isle”
Richard Burns “Ode to Sadness”
Charles Albert “Narcissistic Tweets of the Bloviating Sociopath”
Janice Garcia “Mouth of Mirth”
Floi Baker “I Am Memory Alive”
Pushpa MacFarlane “Silent Stream”
Christine Richardson Seamus Heaney’s “Digging”

If you see errors above in the names of the poets or poems, please write to us at willowglenpoetry@gmail.com with the corrected information.

Death of a Nation

— Larry T. Hollist

Book of Mormon: Either: 15: 14-32

For four long years
All the people of the land
Gathered for one last fight.
Some to one side
The rest to the other.

All had forgotten what
They were fighting for.
Yet, each side knew that
They were
Right.

Every man, woman and child
Were fitted with breastplates,
Helmets and shields.
All went to battle that first day
Carrying their own personal weapon.

They fought until it was dark.
Returning to their respective camps
The surviving armies took
Up howling for the dead.
A howl that penetrated the surrounding hills.

At daylight the armies returned to
Their work of destruction.
At night they returned to their howls.
None wanted to make peace.
All knew their side was right.

Another day of fighting.
Only now there were less
To howl for the dead.
But their hatred had grown.

Day after day they fought by light
Then howled by night
Until there was just 52 on one side
And 69 on the other.
Still there was no compromise.

The next day there were just
32 and 27 left.
Yet neither would yield.

For the next two days they fought,
Bled, fainted, recovered, and died.
No one relented until the two leaders
Were left. And they fought until there
Was one and the mighty nation was dead.

 

 

 

On Leaving Maui

—Lesa Medley

 

Sunlight glistening
waves crashing
palm trees swaying
hibiscus and plumeria,
ah, the plumeria,
its heady fragrance
perfumes the air
and casts a spell
like no other
strong trade wind breezes
keep it all
in constant motion
puffy white pillow clouds
hover above and
cling to the mountaintops
Kihei sits directly
across the water
from my spot
on the Maalea Harbor
Wailea, to the far right,
almost to the end of the point,
although I am preparing
to leave this place,
I am not yet ready
to say Aloha, goodbye,
there is comfort and solace;
however, in knowing
that I most certainly
will return.

 

Desirable Weights for Men

— Dennis Richardson

I’m at my chiropractor’s office when
I see this list of men’s heights
And weights.  It’s not a strange
sight to see in his office, but

When I stop and think of the thought,
What comes back for me is, desirable
For what?  I mean if you’re going
Dancing you might not want a fat slob.

Or skiing, you might prefer someone
Who knows how to ski and not
Someone who looks good in
The outfit.  Of course I knew that.

But I couldn’t resist the temptation
To point it out.  But I mean desirous
Is such a loaded word.  People are
Always attracted to what they

Desire, even a streetcar.  As old
As I am, desire still gets a look or two
From me and don’t say I’m too old.

La Gioconda

— Eike Waltz
I wrote this
Re-wrote this
And I still don’t know the answer… to the WHY

Yes…I saw the goose stepping black boots masked with iron helmets and frozen faces. I was told…I was 4 years old…that we are the masters of the world…

Words… neither stupid, funny or wise.
Words only… by nature… lonely…
So men turns words into brutal creation…but it is the vulnerable all of us…that provides justification and that all so scary… convincing… support.
If you sing… somebody elses song… and you don’t understand…than you are not only an accomplice but also… dead wrong.

And if you don’t hear…what you should hear…and silence sounds like too good to be true…your reasoning… lost for humanity…
Then…your life:… worth… shit all…

Oh yes…Creation thrives uncontrolled in emotion…Think about it…but you… after all…have that privilege… to have a human soul…and… that incredible urge… to live it all…but… is it for all ?

Poetry seeks not only lyrical lovers…It’s from pillow whisper…to that roaring thunder of a juicy… healthy… fart..,
So…take your shit… like a hammer…speak out…speak loud…and crash us all… with that earth shuttering revelation…your … human art

The drum beat of 1939

A…Be…Ce…Drrrrum… drum drum…drum drum…drum drum drum drum…EEEgomaniac…eF…Ge…Ha Ha Hitler…ha hit, ha hit, ha hit…ha hitler was a hit…Iiiiiii…JaJa its iffy…Ka…Lala… lala lalaland…eM…eN…Obnoxious…Peeee…Qu…eR…eSSSSA marschiert, die Reihen fest geschlossen… sociopath…Trrrrump Tru Trump…Tru Trump…Trump…Trump
Tru Trump…Trump Trump…Tweet Trump Trump Trump…Twitter Pussy Puss…the canned Congress Pop up Show…Uuuu…what do they doo…VW es tut wieder so weh (it hearts so bad again) …iX…Ypsilon…unser royal Koenigssohn in historia ezetera hysteria… ezetera Zet…narcisstic…tralaland…
ezetera Z…ein unvergessslicher ironic Zeitgeist …entgleist…
into that notorious ironic memory loss…Camelot tradition on a slippery Twitter Twitter Tweet Tweet Tweet… 1939 humanity’s loss… 2017… is it the same tune or is it an old tone in a toss?… Panic Angelicus…servus…servus et humilis…pussy pussy… piss piss piss

Trump….Tru…Trump…Tru… Trump Trump Trump…black nights…black boots…and I bet ya…ICE is coming to get ya>>>trrrrrump – tru trump – tru trump – tru trump – tru trump

 

Whole Foods

—Jim Russo
Man and Woman conversation, Woman speaks first

Excuse me…will you lick me down there?
I beg your pardon
Will you lick me down there? I saw you looking at me
Well, I don’t know. How long does that take, a good licking?
An hour or more
And you would have how many orgasms?
Oh, multiple, multiple orgasms
I see…I would expect reciprocity
Reciprocity, oh head…yes of course reciprocity
And how long does reciprocity last?
About ten minutes
That’s all, ten minutes?
Ten minutes or less
And I would have how many orgasms?
One
Well it’s no wonder you can’t find anyone to lick you down there
An hour or more and multiple orgasms
Ten minutes or less and one orgasm…that’s not very fair

 

Narcissistic Tweets of a bloviating Sociopath

— Charles Albert

What can you say
to those who still approve of
the bloviating sociopath?

It won’t get through:
they’re protected from
the fake news
by a wall
of alternative facts

Don’t sharpen your claws on
their obtuseness.
Anyone who still believes
his narcissistic tweets
is past the reach of wit.

 

Open-Mic Readers, February 2017

Bill Cozzini “Little Clam”
Jessica Sauceda “I am”
Jerry Dyer “God in the Vulgate”
Mary Lou Taylor “The Restless Sea”
Jade Bradbury “Ocean Park Dreamscapes”
Lee Rossi “Apply Topically”
Diane Moomey “Water Above, Water Below”
Stephanie Pressman “To Sleep Here”
Eike Waltz “Ombra Anna”
Peter Carroll “Finance”
Robin Lysne “Form Follows Thought”
Barbara Saxton “Reflections on a Swan”
Casey FitzSimons untitled
Jeffrey Leonard John O’Donohue’s “Where Nothing Unravels”
Dennis Richardson “CRS”
Leslie Hoffman “On Being a Fox”
Jenny Luu “My Precious”
Laura Brown “Credo”
Jeanne Watson “Christmas Eve, 2016”
Pushpa McFarlane “The Silent Poets”
Doug Nelson “Bent Nails”
Sandip Bhattacharya K. Daruwalla’s “The Guaghra in Spate”
Amy Meier “Borderland”
Renée Schell “February: The First Year of Teaching”
Larry Hollist “Walking the Dog”
Juliane Tran “Morality in the Trump Era”
Christine Richardson Rita Dove’s “Heart to Heart”

God in the Vulgate

— Jerry Dyer

I make my way to the evening window,
where moonlight beaches itself upon the glass.
She always claimed I was begotten of the moon.

When we were young, we’d watch
the Perseids fall together,
life in the sky so brilliant and brief.

We’d lay our beach towels on the dewy grass,
and watch heaven rain down fire,
etching its vastness before our eyes.

She lived her whole life listening to god
in the vulgate.  Then she would translate,
in that voice that sometimes made the dishes jump.

The Perseids are falling again tonight.
I’d swear that I can feel their heat
drifting down to me through years of sky.

I’m old enough, she began saying late last fall,
where I just might be brave enough
to close my eyes and sleep.

I can hear crickets in the windless calm.
Their chirping tells us, quite exactly,
the temperature of the air.

 

Ombra Mai Fu

— Eike Waltz

 

From the Series – Tears of an Immigrant
Ombra mai fu –
In the treasure drove of words, languages and music
I found the opening aria of the opera Xerses by Handel 1738

Ombra mai fu
di vegetabile,
cara ed amabile,
soave più.
Dear gods…
All.. you competing gods…
Visiting
my troubled earth.
Touching
intimate souls
so profoundly….
We are one.. and…none
divided…by natures unrest
lost in histories forgetfulness.
And then…
I don’t want to leave you…sad..
Why should I be… mad..
What is the meaning… of being… bad…
Just… let me end…ever so glad……
…Ombra.. mai.. fu…
Never.. there was a shade…
longer than a day…
shorter than a night…
stronger than fiction…
As only roses… can see…
definitely…
the infinity…
of eternal.. light.
Ombra mai fu
Never was made
the shade of a plant,
so dear and loving,
or more gentle.
And all the vegetables…I don’t like to eat… may be… forgiven…
And all the poisonous strawberry’s… I love to eat
Will finally kill me….it’s so lovely…indeed
Ombra mai fu
Never …there was… a shade…in a day…you couldn’t bee

Reflections on a Swan

— Barbara Saxton

 

A swan’s reflection: regal, unreal,
mute elegance worth twenty measly mallards
or a dozen lesser egrets. Alone, aloof–
he skims the lake’s still mirror, a bulging wake
broadcasting cygnet symmetry.

Beauty, peace and purity swim near,
but my mind breast-strokes beyond all that
to Leda and her misogynist Zeus-bird.
I feel him clamp his snaky neck
around his female prey, clasp her roughly
to his torso with enormous pearl-hued wings,
then rape her, while cruel moonlight shoots
its brilliant silver on still water.

A turn-on, to be sure! But strange and violent passion
also frightens and appalls. Billowing white feathers,
well-toned body, fearsome black beak, strapping legs,
all orchestrated for loathsome seduction, trumpeting:
When you’re a star,
you can do anything you want!

Beware to all who dare to dip
a shapely toe in this Swan’s Lake.

On Being a Fox

— Leslie Hoffman

You call me Red Fox
but I would still be a fox
if my coat were grey.
Does not the Grey Fox
eat what I eat,
drink what I drink?

Look into my golden eyes
and tell me if you can see
into my heart, into my soul.
You may no longer wear
my fur around your neck
or as a muff to warm your hands,
but you still train your dogs
to chase my kind into a tree
for your amusement.

Like you did my mate
carrying my pup
whose blood ran red
the same as yours
before being born.

My Precious

— Jenny Luu

I entered a room filled with candlelight,
rose petals scattered the floor.
“Oasis” plays in the background.

I smell the sweet aroma
of coffee, of cocoa
and of cream.

Smiling in anticipation,
I reach for my precious
flickering in the candlelight.

Silky cream on my fingertips,
soft and smooth to the touch.
I slice the sponge-like cake
and devour
this exquisite Italian gem.

The perfect amount
of sweetness
fills my mouth
and satisfies
my tongue.

Comfort, happiness, pleasure…

We blow out the candle
and slow dance in the dark
to the beautiful music
in our hearts, in our souls,
in our appetites.

“When we’re lost in a desert night
and we’re chasing our paradise,
when we can’t fight another fight,
we’re gonna make it.
You’re my oasis.”

We kiss in the dark,
our shadows in a tight embrace.
I know I love you,
my precious, tiramisu.

Borderland

— Amy Meier

This morning and every morning
as the sky turns from pewter
to robin’s egg across Texas,
New Mexico, Arizona, and California,
Juan Chavez Serrano, Miguel Ruiz Pintor,
Cipriano Martinez Rios and others like them
report for work enclosing new housing communities
with seven foot stucco walls and wrought iron
fences whose primary purpose is to keep
themselves, and other like them, out.

The new United States president sees the opportunity
to extend this idea, fulfill his campaign  promise to
build a great wall, it’s gonna be really great,
folks, its gonna be amazing, he says.

I hear this threat dressed up like a promise,
picture a four state 1500 mile gated community,
imagine Juan, Miguel, Cipriano and others
like them hired for border wall building,
noting as they drive the posts where
ICE prowls, marking territory,
observing where ICE has no presence.

Each day they fasten sections of American
made steel, code mark the bases so the
unofficial night crew on the southern side
of this construction project will know the safest,
the most secure locations to set up the ladders,
throw up the grappling hooks and dig the tunnels.

 

Open-Mic Readers, January 2017

Jerry Dyer “Poetry Works”
Clysta Seney “Old Pond”
Keith Emmons “Moondrifter Reverie”
Barbara Saxton “Aftermath”
Dennis Noren “Building Blocks”
Karl Kadie “How Much”
Diane Moomey “Black Friday at the Ocean”
Eike Waltz “The Great American Lullaby”
Amy Meier “Clap for Tinkerbell”
Bill Costley Trumpolini
Karen Franzenburg History
Judith Schallberger Tanka
Dennis Richardson “On Naming the Animals”
Larry Hollist “The Cellist”
Dave Eisbach “The Spare Tee”
Nick Butterfield “Just a Poem”
Dana Grover “haiku”
Taylor Bailes “Boots”
Christine Richardson

Moon Drifter Reader

Keith Emmons

Long morning. We are on the edge
of the long morning. We are only a few
who see the dawn; our voices rise
as the great round ball of fire,
the great warming yellow globe,
caring not
for our small follies, caring not
if we aid one another
if we feed one another,
feed off one another,
if we eat each other.
For the sun rises and falls, as the tides
rising and falling,
bring the sea toward the shore,
then draw it back into itself,
the light revolving with the darkness.

If we love one another,
if we hate one other, nothing cares,
for there is nothing to care,
nothing to care,
the curlew peeps in the air,
the slow worm presses the dumb sod aside,
the crab scuttles sideways
inside his bony world.

The curlew peeps. The pilings
imperceptibly crumble into the mud.
Day by day the sea anemone
swaying their ghost-white arms, their jelly-tube hair,
waving as the moon sighs high, as the heron
swoops down on silent gray arms, as deer
nervously sniffle the air,
wondering if they dare trespass from the hills,
past land-humans in square-eyed boxes,

down to the bayside tule,
startling the heron
standing with his still silhouette.

We are the silent dawn unheard in books,
unread in papers, lost in radios,
caring not for wires and gasoline games.

We are a small people, two-legged, four-legged,
with fur feathers and skin;
we are a small and timid folk
on the edge of a huge and “civilized” noise.

We are moon-watchers.  Silently
we be unto ourselves, retreating . . . unto ourselves.
Hearing the earth-eating engines approach,
we back off, unto ourselves, sharing eyes, side-looks,
with ourselves, backing amongst ourselves,
we who see we mean one another no harm,
who see we mean not to thieve from one another
nor from the Mother we share.

And where we are fools
and crush one another,
we hope to learn a greater wisdom,
a greater gentleness,
that we may know before it’s too late,
if we crush our gentle brother
we crush ourselves.

Here we have the cast-off rubble of things,
in the field of fennel, on the cove,
the hutches, the hovels,
the houseboats and homes, men and women
young, old, but strong and daring –
daring to be themselves! –
daring to raise their children
as they are –
not as the outer world
wants them to be.
We take the cast-off rubble of things,
we take the leavings
that belong to no one –
to no one but Earth, and to those
who live on what Earth freely gives,
and deprives no one when we take it,
like the sunrise we all use
with no lessening for others.

Here again is the teepee sprouting from earth,
the sweat lodge,
the smoking tent for fish
given by the sea.

Here are gardens with the set-in seed,
the magic of pumpkin, squash, and corn,
of green sproutings leaping from Earth,
chickens earnestly scratching,
seeking the white grub under brown leaves,
running in panic before the goat
bleating with a mouthful of ripped-up grass.

The goat gives milk, the chicken
gives the egg, the earth the tomato,
the fish the sea as the horizon
gives us dawn each day.

 

Aftermath

— Barbara Saxton

 

How I wish it would rain–
buckets and rivers and seas:
all this confounded sun, this fair air
so unseemly.

Make no mistake: The world changed
overnight. Or maybe trapped rats
started stinking more openly,
our best BandAids overwhelmed
by the pus of long-festering sores. 

Oh, you want “real change,” do you?
You think careless throws
of the dice at casino felt tables
will actually help you? You crave apology,
need compensation…for what grievance, exactly?
Have you been enslaved, unjustly deported,
profiled, perhaps groped by your boss?
Is it our fault you chose to stay on board
leaky ships that were already sinking?

Do you think demi-gods, knights
in rusty brown armor will save you?
I’ve seen you, back-slapping each other
and crowing in red baseball hats.
But guess what? He only wanted to win,
then feather his comb-over cap
with the tears of our children.

God, why doesn’t it rain? Maybe I’ll go out
in the sunlight to plant late fall seedlings.
Sugar peas will shoot up from the soil in a week,
as if nothing has happened.  

My harvest feeds needs
for the simplest solutions. 

The Great American Lullaby

— Eike Waltz

When Rex means King and T is a Trump you may well know …its Tweety what I mean
The Great American Lullaby Tweet Slam
Lullaby…Lullaby…T-Rex will be inaugurated… hush baby… it’s time to lullaby
Lullaby…Lullaby…T-Rex will be inaugurated… some are happy… and some do cry

Lullaby…Lullaby…T-Rex will be inaugurated… hush baby… it’s time to lullaby
Lullaby…Lullaby…T-Rex will be inaugurated… you bet… the American dream is finally dead

Lullaby…Lullaby…T-Rex will be inaugurated… hush baby… it’s time to lullaby
Lullaby…Lullaby…T-Rex will be inaugurated… oh God…a swamp monster American… Camelot

Lullaby…Lullaby…T-Rex will be inaugurated… hush baby… it’s time to lullaby
Lullaby…Lullaby…T-Rex will be inaugurated… all done… the king will grab your pussy… oh what fun

Lullaby…Lullaby…T-Rex will be inaugurated… hush baby… it’s time to lullaby
Lullaby…Lullaby…T-Rex will be inaugurated… big breasted mum… keep pumping milk… the king needs every warrior son
Lullaby…Lullaby…T-Rex will be inaugurated… hush baby… it’s time to lullaby
Lullaby…Lullaby…T-Rex will be inaugurated… his twitter will make America so Great Again

Lullaby…Lullaby…T-Rex will be inaugurated… hush baby… it’s time to lullaby
Lullaby…Lullaby…T-Rex will be inaugurated… great… for the Great T… God on his knees serving
his royal T… as he will tweet… coming days… of infamy

Lullaby…Lullaby…T-Rex will be inaugurated… hush baby… it’s time to lullaby
Lullaby…Lullaby…T-Rex will be inaugurated… and just in case… he’d like da punch you in da face

Lullaby…Lullaby…T-Rex has been inaugurated… hold your breath… after all… it was constipation day.
Lullaby…Lullaby…T-Rex has been inaugurated… hush my baby… hush… eventually… like all of us… he too has to die… say no more….kiss kiss…bye bye….it was such a bully of a day…….time… to pray…
After all… it’s that annoying persistent… twitter, twitter…tweet, tweet, tweet …and my so boring lullaby repeat
and if I repeat this… one more time…This boring… awful rhyme…will be the most shitty tweet… of mine