Poem-A-Day: Day 132

Potted Plants

Pots stop spots patting
tabs that stab at bats, rats,
and bars barring bards’ drab dabbling
babble, bubbles bobble baubles
around rotund and tender runs,
yet, not a tonic contra to a cent, or coin
debited, bits deterred red dead retarded,
sounding songs sung; sang sundered
in passings sapped, sassing gasped
for air, rare a rarity of fare
at bars, that barring bards
belittle little belts, still titles let
songsters stir strange gingers gone
to rest, resorting to resist…
at least, less tasteful sets
became macabre remembrance,
stopping spots, pots patted.