The Illegal Question

Poem By Herbert Nehrlich

'How old are you', he asked,
it was not easy to discern
mostly because of mountains,
ranges, even, like the Appalaches,
of lard and jello covered in loud tones
of youngish pink and fluffy, ruffled up
not to deceive, oh no but why?
She answered with a gesture of one finger,
it was the neighbour of the one that flashed a ring.
It was her answer, though I doubt and so does he
that she would have been happy then, or ever.

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