TURNIPHEAD
Turniphead, it calls itself, when names are worth
Turniphead, it calls itself, when names are worth
Something, dumb thing, its eyes dawdle, grin goggles,
Filthy earth-birthed thing.
Turniphead, he calls it, the one who fears it,
cheers
Himself secretly with morbid musings, sick-wit
choosings,
Never normal, not this one.
Turniphead, they call him, idiot tongue lolling
about,
Without a brain, an empty head, so long been dead,
Still, crisp crunch inside.
Turniphead, it marks their words, stores them away
Where half-thoughts play, where half-made things
Wait for the right day.
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