A poem by Beverly Stock.
© Artur Szczybylo | Dreamstime.com
Here is just a little clue,
Look inside the words I write,
Other words hide in there, too,
When packed in tight, they unite.
Scapegoat is the first one,
I don’t think a goat’s aware,
Escaping from this poem,
That his pelt might need repair.
Afterthought is complex too,
A thought that comes thereafter,
After all the work is through,
Airbag? Are you serious?
Air, of course, you cannot see,
Plastic bags are hazardous.
That just makes no sense to me.
Doughnuts are my favorite treat,
It’s true nutlets grow on trees,
Bakery goods are oh so sweet,
But I’m out of dough, you see.