A toothpick was wedged real hard inside,
Divorcing those chiclets all pearly and white
Leaving grotesque that uncomely sight.
Lawrence Fishburne never did see...
A space so wide, unfettered, and free.
Some, I suppose, may name me a dick,
but through that gap Charlie Brown could kick
A prolate spheroid all swaddled in pig--
Under the mast posts this fucker does a jig.
Sidewalk trenches can't compare!
To this slice of thick, pure air!
Continental Drift made continents flow
but the Pacific is sad, seeing how this gap grows.
It's Zeno's paradox, perhaps in reverse,
To a postprandial pick he has become averse.
For, he knows all, and he knows why...
He knows the folly of a vigorous pry.
Perhaps Gimli's axe has split them asunder!
Or nature, that foe, made a grave blunder!
Either way, matters not, I think I shall quit.
This poem is as long as those chiclets are split.
--The first true work
--Of my life.
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