Prateek Joshi
When a frog flies off a fickle branch, you know that love has smashed all the highs
In the meantime, the little red hiding brood is finding an err in the lofty woods
All the love can't save the hither and tither of the burly Groot
In the absence of challenge, the twosome are challaned soon
Writing off the bill on the will, many may die on their love songs' bard
Two trample on temper telling off each other a heart
No mink to meddle in the moth smoked pillar
The satire numbs the heavy pegged and soon the petals disappear
Jeering the taint (howsoever) the maimed are mewed
The shanty shrills out a bickering trill-twine-tune
Onto a march after February, the rattled are aiming for guns
In their pyres off the coast, living a letter one paragraph after another
So hold on to the phasing February; hold frisk-ly to the passing Devilry
Because when the beacons is off and bacons are all burned, you'd still have some vapors
And when the time runs through a barrel, drowning all your blurs, try a little salsa to spice things up
'Cause the end ain't gonna remember your face; maybe the passing wind will speak your name on the lover's face