The Ecphorizer

no matter how cleverly, in whatever light,
you cannot construe as anything funny.
She needs bread and she needs honey.
(She gets a little bread from an out-grown spouse,
but she lives without honey in a cold, cold house).

And hay is a necessity
for her horses, three hundred eighty three.
(That's cubic inches, not horses, I confess.
Is three hundred thirty a more stable guess?)
However many, the ravenous beasts,
ostentatiously consuming hydrocarbonous feasts
while snorting inside a fiery blue dragon,
empower an inanely characterized wagon.

Olivia needs honey, but she doesn't need fat:
her should-be-flat places proliferate that,
because she's a consumer compulsive,
approaching undifferentiate blobness repulsive:

she eats in the bathtub, she eats in the bunk,
she eats when she's sober, and more when she's drunk;
she eats when she's lonely, she eats when she's sad,
she incises especially efficiently mad.
And sometimes when smoking and to-her-toes stoned
for lack of calorific substance has moaned.

But: her blubber can curdle;
she won't wear a girdle.

The only advantage
to all this addage
is, sitting, the paddage.

are assets accrued from a previous merger.
They total together, collectively: two.

She looked at them closely once, and found
that one is thin and one is round;
that brown eyes look green, but blue ones look blue.
The thin, turning-green one is like his mother.
The round, blue, different-sexed one is like the other.
The thin makes sense, the round one little;
the thin, when coerced, performs with his fiddle.
The round, dieting, whittles a more feminine middle.

That Oiivia has beautiful kids is not odd:
their male parent fancied himself a young god.