Originally posted 3/7/2011.

Sometimes I plods until I stops
like I’m made of gods. I’m walk till drops;

I lose a little ground and then
fall, impounded, anywhen.

See the bloods? Mine, I thinks.
I’m stone that floats until I sinks.

I’m not that mad, just split kaboodle
without a kit.  My bad; I’m doodle

on a napkin all grease and stain.
It’s where I wrap a little brain.

Sharp, isn’t I?  I scissor though
and maybe shed a scrap down low.

Bursty me, shell of once upon.
I’m never dim enough to not be on.

Sometimes I plods and then I stops.
Leave a trail of gloomy plops.

Let this be the Big Reply:
Smile, then weave a bit of die.