“Who needs one?”
it thought, flipping
its antennae back
and forth like locks.
Feather, saw-edged,
the moth knew its
locks were more
beautiful than that
of the sputterfly.
It just had trouble
articulating it. When
it tried, what came
out was more like
“powdery mouth”
or “pokery molf”
or “pondery mug.”
Elated, the moth
arrived home,
and alit comfort
ably upon its
poverty mound
only to remember
it had forgotten to
pick up toothpaste.
“Oh, well,” it
thought, “what
are you gonna
do?” And as it
almost dozed off,
it remembered
its mother, and
how she’d yell
“Get your pom-
poms you silly
slumber-mot’!”
And so there
was no sleep
for the weary.
Back it went for
some toothpaste.
