Issue 45, Winter 1968
So the tape bled and seemed amazed at the funniness
Then curled a while and slept under the whirr
The cameras flashed and the donut flashed and sang
“Won’t You be my Puppynut?” and the frosty grass
(From the old frozen spinach) begged to be included
In tomorrow, but tomorrow’s knock on the door
Was my own knock...