Country Music
an online journal of poetry
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Natalia Panzer


Tight jeans became trendy among gravediggers when Mayor picked Bone Poacher as the
          city's personal chef.

Where goes my left-handed heifer after high tea at the Banshee: my tree house hideout
           built to protect me from laboratory Maus?

Faulty headphones like to pipe unicorn songs, hence why we owe so much to Apple,
           hence why taxpayers are happy to fund Cheffie's Traveling Table: a rehashed
           rollercoaster car rigged to ride along power lines.

I did not follow a vegetable plot when fruit was free and their names were slippery and
          not a couple of biddies were born craving cornfields.

But wait, that is an Oklahoma misnomer, so don't worry about it anymore.

Take two went smoothly:
           quaffs stayed aloft,
           Harlequin's jumpsuit kind of looked like a Texas flag,
           the goat grew old properly,
           bottoms were on display,
           those stuttering bats did not go nutty from overdosing on putty, good boys.