North is blue and yellow. West is blue and red. East is green and red. Can’t change the colour you were bred, even if that you dread. South is green and yellow. There may be some saffron, on the apron. The king of the jungle can sing for a living. He is no dirty fellow.
This submarine is yellow. The water is deep; yet, water is shallow. The music always plays around the cello. You can hear whispers all too low, calling for rock and rollo. Is there merriment in the merry-go-round with places twelve? The pied piper’s pipe is hollow. O so sorry to the core! There is an infinite wait for the final score. Though you don’t want any more.
How long must we wallow?! There is never vacancy at the gallow. Death galore. The depth below is a fish’s bellow. And in the sky, the devil says Hell-o!
You can’t bust a myth. It is your writ. The mysteries were always right from before. They are always knocking at your door.
And the world mistook my halo. I think it was callow. Never mind, my love is yellow. Between her and me, God is mellow.
montes-musings.blog 
Bro – you are a genius. I liked the take / poetry on colors but I think you’ve got the wrong colours out west .
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