A Limerick poem about peacock
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Answer:
Clinking and partying the night away, the velvet curtain reveals the stage.
The muted party whirls to life, golden strings pull through delicately masked spite.
Iridescent colours flair and dance, while those lifeless eyes scan for critical chance.
Tension gathers while Master Time ticks on, plastered smiles spur on false fun.
Plastic Peacocks click and squeak; whose feathers fall to others’ weary feet.
Deafening nonsense and scattered noise, all these manipulations carry on with experienced poise.
‘Happy Birthday’ and holidays are oh so bleak, with all these lies pooling in expert technique.
Plumes of pleasantries puff out from shallow intentions, these Barbie Peacocks are not worth the mention.
Attentions and sympathies are gathered en masse, scraping and clicking with nothing to last.
Mechanical birds swirl around this room, harbouring the news that bares most doom.
Plastic Peacocks flare their lies, displaying all when the daylight dies.
Tension wound up to the limit, the Master Time continuously documents minutes.
Bare words and mindless thoughts, all these Peacocks melt to rot.
Theatre pauses for a moment’s breath, the protagonist currently pressing for swift death.
Honey phrases placed on repeat, while fellow birds attempt to retreat.
Plastic Peacocks don’t keep Master Time, whose patience finally passes final lines.
Joyous tunes warble delicate with hideous intent, Peacocks scatter around at the Time Master’s fierce lament.
Past pile up alongside shattered phantasies, unknowingly the birds gather in fear that agree.
Velvet stage twists with a paradise of sorrow, frosty shadows gripping faces that these birds merely borrow.
Dread of the fool hangs by its foot, proclaiming all these fakers sinners of beings underfoot.
Poor Plastic Peacocks dripping with sin, who requested upon the Time Commander who let games begin.
Beaks baring toxic grins, these creatures possess no soul to mend.
Clock hands tick down running time, colours currently whirl around in the viewer’s mind.
Pleading screams fill thoughts of Master Time, whose intention is to repair those crimes.
Clock chimes Ten, signalling this gathering of sin clattering to an end.
Plastic Peacocks melt from the intense heat, with wishing thoughts of Satan they have to greet.
One I had sitting in the vault for about a year and never posted. © a month ago, Niko party • plastic • peacock • time • rich • death