thin as a banker's smile,
In your pen,
your campy prop,
And in your fridge,
bare as a Detroit warehouse,
Well what the hell is that?
what's in that shit? Irony?
You smile like you know the joke.
The cow, you say,
was making a statement about post-modern physical art.
The cow was sick
of not having command over her own body,
and so this is her finger at the world.
If you believe that, you should write it, I say,
but you just smirk and add a tab to the orange juice, stylishly blue.
for the mini-challenge at Real Toads.