Hotspot of Whipping
The United fell when a club, on their hotspot, I thought it was a harm— For their Wi-Fi to connect. What a watery soup from their cooking pot! That sauce isn’t surplus from the Hotspur of Tottenham; Yet Man United rushed there to collect. That soup is very, very hot, And voluminous like a loser’s dam. Swimming with cries, I felt their tears' droplets. Whoops—was it Snapdragon? No, it was a slap from a sharp man's gun.
Ad
Poetry Books 50% Off
Bestselling collections from top poets
Shop Now →
