The poetry, stories and intrigues of C.J. Brenner

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Fish golfer

There was once a man named Moe
He checked every single toe
He worked in the glass trade express
And his watch was always never his dress

But his name was less than the fudge
And his hard work paid off for his rent
So his spoon was his fork
And his spoon was bent

And he never got to the golf course alive.

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