Poetic Remix


Stopping By Porkchops on a Snowy Evening

Whose porkchops these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his porkchops fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the porkchops and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The porkchops are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

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2 comments:

Rock Chef said...

You are obsessed with food ;-)

Phfrankie Bondo said...

Bravo!! Award winning!! Me likee!! So phfine!! Yowza yowza yowza!!