The Curse

“To swell the gourd and plump the hazel shells”
Is not a verse Keats suited well to Autumn
Instead a girl whose rump and stomach swells
Just to clutch another pointless ovum

She tumbles like a glob upon the surface
(That surface does not know which way to turn her)
More suited to the melancholy purpose
Of jelly rolls and marshy mallow stupor

For “pumpkinesque rotundular” describes it
Or more improved “beset upon by whales”
Gazette of pulpy monthly mass afflicted
A girl of stretchy underpants and sails

“Why?” the mirrored ugly narwhal moans
Some arcane sin she fruitlessly atones


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