under a willow tree, o, my little gravy
boat, you are as lovely as Euclid’s
beard this evening. O, prime
integer, I’ve never told anyone
but you about the area of a circle.
Let’s fly our kite over the herd of American
Bison skulls: fertilizer makes a great
open-face sandwich. But, o, you are the square
root of the loneliest real number. It’s such
a solace having friends.
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