The old turtle has a white scarf around.
The English teacher is teaching history.
The blue roses with green stripes are abound.
The dead man walking remains a mystery.
The volleyball has stayed long in the air.
Gallons of water does not quench the thirst.
The ghost looks funny with his long blue hair.
A treeless forest, just golden sawdust.
Sometimes a lady comes and brooms my room.
And I can still hear her in the kitchen.
Deepest is the sleep in the morning bloom.
Till I hear the beans grind and coffee churn.
Though an owl hoots to tell it is a dream.
Here I am real though unreal seem.
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