Midnight Maracas

smalll, wooden maracas lie in rows across a table
tabletop strewn with maracas
Photo by Caleb Oquendo on Pexels.com

Separate the sons by surmission

party in paradise with permission

miss the mark of Mars’ mission.

don’t you wanna know

how low you can go?




not here, or there, in limbo

stuck in traffic in the limo

make me some green gumbo


I’m not sharing my shrapnel skimpy shrimp fish with sweet simba

yes I know how to play the marimba

ay caramba

fan the furnaces of fierce fission

fissure the faces of derision

doom the saboteur to submission

the lions lie in liaison with the dyes

roll the die if you dare

get unlucky and you’ll stare

at an apt attack of attrition

until at your addled admission you acquiesce and adjoin our amalgamation

of perfectly fair asset acquisition

ask again and I’ll answer

absolutely, Alabama,

simba’s singin’ for the lions lyin’ in the dyes with the paper parcels,

partying with the pretty pyrite pepper partakin’ parade,

and you won’t see me there playing my marimba

I’ll be moseying my macarena for the mice and mosquito’s midnight maracas,

wontcha wait and watch with me,

until the surmission of suns comes?

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