Desk farrago:
Why can’t I come to my pencils?
They’re lost among the stencils
And half-chawed chow,
Such as a hard bun
That was too spicily seasoned;
That was what I reasoned—chewed
A bite and said, “Wow!”

In the drawer’s a queen’s enticement toy
For beatings of the labial
Place where the seam will part—it always gets it wet.
But it seems to me: can't find things
Up on top but one day maybe’ll
Materialize—at least that’s my bet.

Desk farrago:
The scene here stifles my hunger.
At least there’s no dung—er—
Though dry as a bone,
The pee dome: feline “throne”;
There ain’t no pee, turds floccin’—
Hope kitties weren’t stalkin’ and droppin’—I’d moan!

Gross! Here’s meat that’s cold. . .viridian slime’s
Started to grow; on desk varnish, rimes
Of mold and mildew—fungicide I’ll spray.
I’ve been losin’ all the rhymes I wrote
For the site I blight, where I emote most days.

Desk farrago:
Now I have come to utensils,
Something that looks prehensile: crooked, not straight.
It may be painin’, but down the drain goes this junk slew;
This dreck is nothing but a junk slew
(Wretched dreck’s a junk slew).
This fetid fens is just a junk slough,
So, throw it out. . .
WAIT!!!!!!!!!!!!