Monday, November 25, 2013

Kiln Time

He couldn’t waste a square inch of his kiln
So packed, when drafting, it whistled
As the flue warmed up, heated air hissed through
Flame shot out the base like a missile

It rumbled. It shook itself free from the ground
The controls, they came free from the socket
It pitched and it yawed, momentarily paused
It then just shot off like a rocket

It climbed through the air, it soared into space
It pierced the clouds with its chimney harpoon
And that’s how it happened, I cannot lie
That’s how his were the first pots on the moon.

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