I MEANT to play a pleasant CHORD, one that fell gently on the ear. Instead, as I strummed, the CROWS took flight, black squawk boxes, throwing me completely off my game. I shake my fist, glaring up at them, CROSS as can be. I settle back down, and reflect, it could have been worse. At least they didn’t poop on my guitar.

Georg’ann

What a terrible WASTE
Mistake made in sleepy haste
Silence the jubilant CHOIR
Put the CROCK on the fire
No ability to CROON
Feed me honey on a spoon
Perhaps it’s CROUP
Shall I have soup?
A nurturing kind of gruel?
An awful low sort of crool
Is the sound of a voice lost
The word not chosen was CROSS

Heather