A Limerick

Because why not?

A Limerick

There was a young gull cold and white as the moon,
its wings were longing,  its beak a bent harpoon.
It had a wish for its gut
that fish couldn’t glut,
but the rocks it flew over were still shit-strewn.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
This entry was posted in Art is lies, Gulls, Harbour, John MacKenzie, Micropoetry, New poems, Poem tweets, Poetry, The Sea and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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