Cold Dissed in Colchis
A door is ajar. A jar is adored—
I’m sure it’s amour. A moor drifts ashore,
a pyre appears. A peer’s empire
aspires to fie a trial by fire.
A liar’s allure: a lure’s a lyre,
strumming a heartstring’s atrial desires;
a mere amen blamed a man named amir,
heir to ammon, no— Amon is the air!
“My dear’s Medea! A fur for her arm;
a mar on my lip! A Fuhrer is born!”
Afar on a ship, even further gone,
a mom conceived the future in a barn!
A tar’s a ferret, he’s loose in the hay;
you can bet on the cards he lays, she spades!