You sliced the apples, have rolled the dough
and sprinkled it with the remaining flowers in the middle of the day.
A frozen deep sleeper appears and devours your cake
in stand, you can see him there. It has two horns on its head,
which he rubs bloodily on a shoot. But he's not hungry,
His face is rolled flat, from the exertions of sleep.
I think, he was long into the reproduction of fruity sweets
employed. Now he is hatching containers for ice cubes.
(Second fruit cake poem 7.2016)
(Drawing Marion)
Like!