bonzai!

Illegal crab apples mutter silently
claiming, "My turtles run fast"
in silent dentiloquy.
We part ways, keep our distance,
lower our banana rifles and blueberry six shooters.
Some of us yell
"bonzai!"
while the others hang their head in humiliation.
Here rests our bedraggled soles.

In Nantucket, a sack of potatoes once cursed His Majesty.
The Gestapo peeled him and
diced him and
fried him and
now he is a tater tot;
a deliciously tragic ending.

Waste not words. What seems like palaver is actually finesse.