Among the Ung

Ah, Spring is sprung. Bean sprouts of mung. Frisbees are flung. The swings are swung. By trees of Tung on river Nung, wet clothes are wrung. The lights are strung. Snowballs are slung. Stockings are hung. My boys are young. My ho is gung. My Fu is Kung. The cask is brung with leaky bung. My tongue is stung. My songs are sung from aging lung. My bells are rung. My life is dung. But still I clung. The years flashed by in a blur. Sorry I did not see you waiting. I was working on a Eulogy Poem for my Doggerel Anthology while trying to conjure up an idea for today’s Blog. Hopefully something good will appear in this space before posting deadline.

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