Pedantry feasts on
the bloated carrion-corpse
of Old Whimsy’s ghost.
Anon, my hopes, those
fanciful adventures that
rise and flow, onward,
will raise the chins and
redden the noses of those
fanciful dancers
‘top the grave of the ghost.
I hear the Pedant clearing his throat.
He asks me,
“Why would a ghost have a grave?”
More smugly,
“Besides, you broke form five lines ago.”
©️ 2020.
