writing poems that don't quite rhyme but acting like they do, to fuck with future phonologists
A cloth of music, woven well
is picked apart with beak and nail.
The inner ear can hear it still
and, soothing, makes the breast grow full.
writing poems that don't quite rhyme but acting like they do, to fuck with future phonologists
A cloth of music, woven well
is picked apart with beak and nail.
The inner ear can hear it still
and, soothing, makes the breast grow full.
it doesn't yet but I think I'm considering adjusting my speech until it does
I'm pretty sure "well" and "nail" do rhyme in some southern US accents though