Snobbin: Beautiful Trash in the Pop Culture Gutter

A late March snowfall obscures the previously blue sky. With scattered snow flakes graying out the sun. No justice from puns and prose or even a desperate try. Instead the rotating orb does not stop for even a mourning dove's elegiacal cry. An old woman on the slushy sidewalk, dodging ice chunks, wishes winter was done. A late March snowfall obscures the previously blue sky. A muffled snore of a world never reborn nor showing its fragile eye It slumbers in fits and starts that block out the ruminating sun No justice from puns and prose or even a desperate try Where are the frolicking foxes? Are the mousy bunnies too shy? The places they once cherished, they now practically shun. A late March snowfall obscures the previously blue sky. The snow crunches beneath my feet even though I hoped to wish the season goodbye. The icy touch of spring, an irony that's lost much of its fun. No justice from puns and prose or even a desperate try. Soon it will turn to slush and the seasonal ach...

Haunted thoughts of rusty pens sheathed, That you should be mad in the darkness drifting, That the world is nothing if not yours bequeathed. Though the doldrums that kept me wreathed In scholastic cages monthly shifting, Haunted thoughts of rusty pens sheathed. I never got to write, but static noise leaked, From my pen like a random shifting , That the world is nothing if not yours bequeathed. I slowly forgot your name, barely breathed. My glamorous past kept me listing, Haunted thoughts of rusty pens sheathed. The dogs in the cages seethed, Their barks vulgar and resisting, That the world is nothing if not yours bequeathed. Oh my lover and my cheap pen creased, A tragic benediction of misused time twisting, Haunted thoughts of rusty pens sheathed, That the world is nothing if not yours bequeathed.