Confessions of a Ceramic Wooden Basement Utensil

Ah, tragedy.
Tragedy is like old woolen socks
And Meat Past Its Expiration Date.
Tragedy is like the Hole
In the Great Sock of Ethiopia
And Days Without Potato skins
and the Flies which Buzz in the Scissors of Destiny.

Tragedy is like the Wrinkles of the Knuckle Skin
And the Prophetic yet Tractable Unicycle of the Sun
Which daily Rides
Through the Whirlygigs of Unsurpassed Soap Bubbles.

Oh Let The Frozen Peas Come Down
From that Great Mountain upon the Tree.
Let the Strained Carrots
Rain upon my Face.

For thy Integument has
An Unflattering Wart
Protruding from beneath.

Ah, Tragedy.
You Tarnish Me.