I saw rooms without windows, rooms without doors.
Dark, musty carpets lay scattered on floors.
A bartender named Cork was decked out in black tie.
He was quick with his business though he had but one eye.
Then we took to the streets past shanty and hovel.
‘Twas like going back in time to an old Dickens’ novel.
Like moths to the light we set off for the Brig.
There Smith played troubadour and danced a profane jig.
1 comment:
cork is pork,
but pork is not cork.
you can eat only one with a fork,
but both with a spork.
i miss mork
and mindy.
my name is cindy. cindy tooanunnery.
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