
going ahead without a plan
just to avoid the damn man—
you know who,
not the one serving flan—
i can feel the grog
walking through the fog
springing upon
marshmallow rocks,
a caramel breeze swirling by
oh dear!—oh my!
fudgey fishies in
a chocolatey phish-fudge sea,
must i ever leave this dream,
can we avoid the rift?
I’d rather drift—
the wolfman and his brother,
swimming along with my mother—
wait?—my mother? oh brother!
can I switch this for another?
Junta, please.
POET’S NOTE:
Part of The Art of Being collection. Nothing at all against flan 😋, but are you a Phan like me? 😅 Phish Food™ please?
© 2026 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.



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