there was a pickled fickle,
wandering near the meadow,
it walked back, it walked forth,
looking for a place to go,
estranged by its growth,
never to b understood,
always looking from where it stood,
searching for a ray of light,
to guide its way through,
could have seen it in a night,
but rather meddled and vague to construe.
4 comments:
lisa, poem ni mmg best.
and you can rhyme well too.
i feel like a pickle all the time. hehe. :)
haha..thanx for ur comments ida...love u :-*
n im oso a pickle all d time. ;p
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