She is a masterpiece as excellent
As the cracks in the Mona Lisa.
A work of art as almost beautiful
As the mold on a squirmy armadillo.
Can I compare her to a jubilant hairy lobster?
Or is she equalled by the immaculate weeping watermelons?
She is more lovely than the shattered shards
Of exquisite Grecian pottery,
And more realistic than a crocodile
Who swims all day in tart and tasty lipstick.
The missing pieces
Of the mansion Parthenon,
The breathtaking breaks
In a Yellowstone precipice,
The brown part
Of a rotten bow tie.
She is more to me than all of these,
And now I have a kangaroo nose of my own.
I think that I must be in love,
But it could be indigestion—
Only Lee or a bad burrito
Could make me feel this way.
She smells much better than a bad burrito.
She doesn’t fit at all inside the rigid barbed wire,
But she is a misshaped gratuitous extraneous rupture
In a canvass that forever disrupts the regular flow of purple tea.
So what is the best type of story to tell a toddler with pointy teeth?