They would canoodle
and swoodle
and oodle
and boodle
and cajole
and rumble
and fall
They’d get up
and they’d play
and dance
every which way
and entice
everyone
each
one and all
They would complain
when they’d
suffer some pain
and bruises
and oozes
and which
But they’d always
get well
cos they’re mother
would tell;
it’ll heal
on it’s own
with no stitch
They’d forever
be happy
and jolly
and flappy
and funny
and carefree
and young
for no matter
the weather
they’d always
be better
when they’d canoodle
and swoodle
and run.
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Published by sensualism
I love writing - poetry mainly, but the odd thought or story may find its way to the page as prose. I'd love to contribute to poetry and writing groups near my home by the sea but the dreaded clock seems to beat me most times. I do happen to contribute to https://cosmofunnel.com, a poetry website with 'panache'. Check it out for a different take on things.
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