Are You The Bulbmaster? Oh foaming loofer of discontent Why does spume land on my tuba And of all this time I've needlessly spent To know I'm not called Buber When fences arrive without any paint And no one gathers the hay in the fields Is it any wonder that I feel faint When I think of what the gooseman yields? Big hammocks collide with your carrot police And no one hides the gasoline in the fridge Or dances the funky chicken, dressed as geese Except the gooseman on San Francisco bridge And these spatulas that arrive in droves And yoghurt to splat upon these walls We could have a feast of loaves If the policeman weren't all so tall So put the casseroles in the baking tin And the yoghurt and the spatulas in alabaster My door is closed, and I'm not in Unless you are the twigbitch or the poet BulbmasterBirth sign: Aquarius
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