Round follicles denied themselves their sob,
encircled by ambushing catch.
Granules in jeopardy were no match
for the unruly corn cob.
With little to perceive, the book shut its eyes,
when the schoolmaster gave it an almighty nudge.
The book screamed that it was not match much
for all that it wanted read off it, which were lies.
The master cornered it by reminding it
"Your duty is to be read and drunk.
You sin when you give this a bunk."
But there was no jigsaw the book could fit.
All the while, his father appeared
in his full fury.
Denouncing all this as 'bunkum theory.'
Who knew what he wished feared.
The wallet's plush interior
pursed its mouth.
Not wanting to put its future in doubt,
it refused to hold its babies dear.
The chamber is closed to all but itself.
All it smells is its gases;
given over to its stashes,
It revels in its staggering wealth.