Lifting an exhausted sock with prehensile toes
from the counterpane side of dawn's downy rose
is the minimally primal use of quintuple digits,
greater is savagely ripping a ripe tomato for musky seed
with sticky juice on warming fingers and frisky wrists,
and licking the thickening syrup with a simian glee.
There are seven ways that are less than prime,
all secretly scratched in clay by a whiskered few
and here we only lightly tease by noting two-
three through six are partly dusky and void of rhyme
but number seven, of necessity, involves a clue.
The clue is that little miss misguided Moffit,
made a u-turn and couldn't tough it:
Charmed by crystal and the spectrum produced,
she glittered through aqua and orange and spruce,
neither cowed by refraction nor sunlit but chance,
she spun through the motions of an anodyne dance,
At the bitter script of cuneiform prophets
she began to, leeringly, just peek askew,
coaxing brass music from ethereal bracelets
and waiting for clouds to razor the moon.
The clue is a little miss misguided Moffit,
she made you turn and but couldn't rough it.
Murky bowcups indeed.