Preparing to pick the winner…
Long ago in lands of golden sand…
Brahma turned to Saraswati…
And gently kissed her inked hand…
She saw the fuzzy granules…
Costumed pollen dusted capsules…
Imprisoned upon their stems…
She stood at the bow….
Eyes to the sea…
Her callous heart…
As frigid as could be.
Cold and obstructed…
The mephitic aroma…
Of her emotional melanoma…
pour into my spirit a sustenance
of purity and goodness of soul.
Far flung savageries had wrought…
The Little Maiden’s spirit…
Way more than it had ought…
