Poem: Entiteld: This is not a strawberry.
Gravy on my hands.
Gravy on my feet.
Gravy meats the body.
Gravy thorugh the heat.
My hands are coverd,
in gravyiouse delight.
My hands are coverd,
don't be quick to firght.
Gravy gravy
on my toes,
Gravy Gravy.
Where it goes..
hands and gravy, everywhere.
Gravy is, in gravys hair.
Gravy gravy, like the murky depths
Gravy on my hands so wet.
From gravy, not sauce nor pepermint.
No sailors in my garden tent.
Gravy on this poem spill.
Gravy from my hands to nil.
Naught, or whatever you wish.
Gravy is top 'o' the list.
Hands come second, hands come first.
Gravy coverd, eternal thirst.
Etheral mist, the hands of time
Turn and twist, the gravys vine.
Eat it on a silver platter.
Eat it off a burger, splatterd.
Use it as a topping, on your food of choice.
Gravy is the masters voice.
Gravy from a plastic tube.
Squuezeed by skinny hands (so few..)
Liters , Galons, Tones and more.
Gravy comes , in many forms.
By hand or by maschine,
Gravy comes like molten stream.
Of lava or, another thing,
palm trees swinning, in the wind.
Cats are here, they always are.
I think they eat gravy.
but I havent seen thus far.
Gravy comes and gravy goes
but altogether, no one knows.
Gravy through my hands.
Gravy through my feet
Gravy meats the body.
Gravy Through the Heat.

~Fin~