A very silly spin on a serious subject. Dr. Seuss meets William Shakespeare meets the Downfall of the Western World as I know it. Ha…
Each week The Sunday Whirl invites writers to write a poem or short prose using some or all of the “Wordle’s” 12 words. This week it is:
Shakespeare Never Wrote the Words: Love Trumps All
(or Trump Loves All)
My love is like no feathered planet: high.
A shallow spinning bird whose cry doth jinx.
A voice who warbles us to follow (sigh).
Whose twitters bring us to the brink of drinks.
Now to decide which bird for you will molt;
Treat gentle as a planet’s warbling spin.
If not, this love may screech and, maybe, bolt.
And you may never have this love to win.
Perchance to dangle slender threads of love,
To tease you like a pigeon eating crumbs,
Chattering so scornfully above.
You’ll bleed out life before love ever comes.
This gothic cult of self-conceit ensues,
With daily tweets as if now breaking news.