Rosencrantz is a glorified stevedore.
Are you going to finish that Danish?
At a gauche if kosher corner of Elsinor
Guildenstern’s injury is embellished
while a bladesmithery of grass at Crécy
is chagrined that the wind
give lawns advantage. A perfect precis
of the various ways cats can be skinned.
The more a coin is tossed the closer
the unity of heads and tails.
A grouse between a composer and grocer.
So it is with these fields, this gale.
A train regurgitates its fare early.
There’s a Type A typo in my bible.
I’ve been treated unfairly. Yours sincerely,
an avid fan of slander. A disciple of libel.
Caput mortuum. Kaputte mundwinkel.
A Hogarthian mass goes half past,
swaying like grass. Pringles gave me shingles
but it’s been so long since I saw my lawyer last.
Everything must go. Lamartine’s gusto.
I measure my minutes by such indices,
so blow on my custard, Cousteau.
Family animus in a sea breeze diocese.
Premature Pyramus picks the picnic
where a lioness was dancing with a veil.
Stock stochasticity and arrogating arithmetic
is the sword on which he is impaled,
held up by a group of shivering pall-bearers;
the grass, asking no questions.
A nadir dear to summits in the Sierra.
A corollary open to suggestions.
The linear regression of point in Sussex
is like the whistling dot of an arrow.
A prefix presupposes suffering a suffix.
Bow to the wind. Thank the weather bureau.