Helen Bonham Carter

Burly Bertha, the barmaid
was quite buxom beneath her bodice  
Sir Billy he's a dashing blade  
he squims in his seat like a mollusk  
 
piper pipes at the gate at dawn  
you hear his gayity in his song  
shut your cake hole, but I prefer pie  
top of the pops, and cherries never stop  
growing from branches,  
                              waiting to be plucked  
 
whale bone, xylophone played at night  
bubblegum pop gets caught in your hair  
swatting at flies with the evening news
 
the headlines read...that God is Dead..  
as mylar balloons seem to float forever  
those windbags never run out of air  
or maybe it's all in our head, talking    
                                              to zombies  
 
tomorrow  
I'll write Helen Bonham Carter  
complaining