No gales of laughter

Photo Author

My broad beans are prostrate — lying flat

natured tall — never recumbent mat.

all day cruel winds blew — a wrestling match

blasted them in vegetable patch

be the season’s growth in truth a flop,

knowing atmosphere has tossed our crop.

A countermeasure is close,

supermaket — bill of fare

beans we’ll get from there.


I know some of you readers find it easy to trot out verse. Here is my attempt at an epigram. Is it one?

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