Riots in the noisy city
with hics and tics of shiny history.
Horny orcs of iron incisor
and rocs with thorny, itchy nits
cry in synch with icy choirs
of ostrich trios, hints of rhino,
chronic critics going north.
We will eat the ninth crostini;
with hits of citric Scotch and tonic
(stir with short, thin chicory).
Oh ironic, oh, how corny.

The End

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