franwords

By franwords

June 5, 2012

Tags: creative writing

Category: picture, poetry, writing

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He had a pince nez; the one with emmentail cheese.  It was dark mourn day; a place of hush.  Coolio felt the catastrophe flare; on love she could rely.  the game was spent to exactly free; ten men were lonely.  

In the half light, expectance swore; it would have to be tea at the bistro.  She took the left side of the passage to the door, making the creak.  

Marsh spent his time in bed; the day wore on.  Cat controlled the signature cox; she was pleasant.  These were the scores for dozy Breadalbanes as they met at the beach.  Gypsy said the rain had come; drifted the silk. 

Therefore there clowns; cupid to decipher.  None paired, fun breathed; the counter of the meter.  The lyre looked up in the art of old; there was a man in Timbuctoo.  Ever with the mace he flew; ajar to the brain door.

Thanks Brian

Do a twirl

Number a fish

The vices were close, as the friends drew nearer.  Coolio was wrapped in velvet.  The lice swore

Heck a find

Huckleberry proved, dangling the pier.  More rain of interpretation.