The lark in the ark gapes at the apes who flip their lips and grunt at runts. The lark in the ark doesn’t like the fowl of the owl and especially not the brat of a rat at the slot to the lot in the park on the ark where he likes to play and lay in the sand with a hat that he drags like a rag.
The lark on the ark took flight with the light and flew to the slab at the lab to look at the mice on ice which did not feel like eels who dwell in a well and swarm warm in the soil and oil and will never ever have that meat to eat which would be quite a feat to eat.
The lark out of the ark hovers over the ground ’round a grave and raves and howls at the owl in the cemetery. With a scorn for corn and eating grain in the rain the lark out of the ark makes a stab at the tab and with a swing of his wing takes a swoop with a whoop at the snail by the nail.
With a pluck and luck, with a plunge and lunge, with a pounce and an ounce of careful maneuvering, the lark far from the ark now plays sport at the port as he flies from the chair and then near his hair and again in the air and teases with ease the cat who ate the rat by the drain in the rain whose eyes now start to glow with a low fire of
ire.
Finally the lark so far from the ark took a turn at the urn and returned to the ark, made a weave under the eave, groped for a rope where he could stop on top above the table in the stable in the dark of the ark.
Ben Gieske
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-lark-in-the-ark/
