OMG, IT'S BATH TIME!

Fawn dew, my literary asp spire ration,
you are liquidity unfolding abs so lutely.

Rippling Abs, you whose apps
are sinuous veils of sinusoidal
societies, are delivering

an interesting topology
of fitness terrains

and fitness instructors
detecting a hazardous morain
of more or less discarded
cellphones

become cradles
for sweet, yet
disingenuous mice
with delicate
furry
elephant
trunks.

You mice-laden hunchabachs,
are your goiter bells
as tinkly, or twonkly
as the weary old stars,
and droopy Persian magi
come as threeness
to a hissy fit?

O hissy fit, is your
prissy wunderkabinett
a cattailike snake-trunk
bunko squad approximation
laid in swaddling legers

like a hush
upon the reeds?

Lo, there are campaign surcharges
for any contestant
with a chin dimple,
or a heavy metallic
sundial jutting
from their forward crania.

Why don't the Nath
play team sports?

The Narrth? This is
not a judgement, but
joking referee..

Weee!

Why do the fireflies
inhabit

a mesh-like helmet bridge
which reaches between
two chatteronga players
who play unnamed string
instruments

with long
and curly toenails
now sporting
glitter-nail
adhesive cellphone
stick-ons?

Wee!

Are you ankles rusty?

Upon the horizon
is a wondrous castle
of many scented soaps..

Go there, O rusty ankled
oneness, and select a brick
from the yummy lord of baths.

Wee! OMG!
It's bath time, again...