Robert Ian Scott
The Forgs
While typing much too quickly,
about what he found in his garden,
Mangle spells them f-o-r-g-s
and there they are, anvil-shaped,
too dense to swim or learn
or even own a bank.
Instead of green and growing bigger,
they shrink as they grow rusty;
instead of croaking, they clank;
instead of jumping, they squat sullenly
at the bottom of ponds,
waiting for something to happen,
and for them, it never does.
Page(s) 98
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