The golden apple’s foreign, make it cry

The sun owns us, it made the acers bright.
We flaunted a beech tree, a small bonsai
How I love the play, a tragedy, oh, quite.

When I croaked today I saw the light!
I dream of nothing and I rarely wonder why.
The gambling verbs have made the poets trite
.

Gone is winter with its widow’s might
Off, grey rod and take your Grecian pi.
How I love aught held with feigned delight

I saw a child write with her ink so white
I said, the paper’s black.do you know why?
The golden apple’s foreign, make it cry

My husband’s gone to bed, he’s dynamite.
Except he falls asleep when I pass by
My broad elastic band snaps in delight

I am Jesus, I am foreign.I’m not white
I may seem dead but I am God’s own spy
The silver swan’s song had a bitter note

Would a Wittgenstein interpret lies?
Will my nightie be ok if I should die?
The sun scents hours, we smile at cows so white.
How I love these sheep with green and golden eyes.