BookWormAssistant

A refugee, Of sorts, Ran through The uneven Stone streets. His breath Fleeting his lungs. His legs coinciding With the lack of energy. Despite his best attempts, He always seems To be running In a deduced Sort of way. Never fast enough, Never slow enough. But his legs And his lungs Still permitted The foul abuse He gave them, Slowing pleas Of repletement. What was curious About our refugee Was that he was Compelled to stop. To stop his running. To stop the residue of pain. To stop this naive behavior. But he ran, He ran despite his Attempts of residing His love of stealing.

The Curator was A curious man. Yes, a very curious Man the Curator was. The Curious Curator Loved his gallery. Oh he loved his gallery All the way to the Moon and back. This Curious Curator And his Grand Gallery Loved to play pretend. The Grand Gallery Would provide the Curious Curator with The world to explore. Together they visited The Broken Bank of Brooklyn, Which had a very good Biscuit baker next door. The Orange Ocean was An interesting place indeed. Many sunned soundly On the sands. The Curious Curator and his Grand Gallery took themselves To the Marooned Moors One day. The land was very lovely, Fog blanketed the ground