A Poem for much later

This is a poem for later;

so, please don’t read it now,

it’s still hot from the Poetry Oven,

and has to cool somehow.


I’d leave it in the garden,

but the birds will peck it’s face;

and I could pop it into orbit,

it’s cold in outer space.


In the freezer there’s no room,

and frozen words are naff;

they thaw out and lose all shape,

like a circular giraffe.


No, they can cool quite slowly

at room temperature

(minus 1!)

and the poem should be ready for reading

by August when there’s sun.


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