The (Powdered) Milky Way
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Poetry
An ode to our last 750-gram powdered milk, taken from our treasured weekly Buy-Up Sheet.
The full cream milk I get today,
and in my cell it has to stay.
Of fault, not mine, I cannot get
to fridge afar, not now, not yet.
I have a drink, of fresh to taste
of fault, not mine, it goes to waste.
A day without brings me to thirst,
I think of powder, or not the worst.
To have of this, could be the choice,
upon the buy-up, to have the voice.
Oh, let at Woodford, bring it back,
The milk of powder, in the sack!
An ode to our last 750-gram powdered milk, taken from our treasured weekly Buy-Up Sheet.
The full cream milk I get today,
and in my cell it has to stay.
Of fault, not mine, I cannot get
to fridge afar, not now, not yet.
I have a drink, of fresh to taste
of fault, not mine, it goes to waste.
A day without brings me to thirst,
I think of powder, or not the worst.
To have of this, could be the choice,
upon the buy-up, to have the voice.
Oh, let at Woodford, bring it back,
The milk of powder, in the sack!
Date Published
November 11, 2025
By Dan
A drawing of Stitch from Lilo and Stitch, sent to us by Dan.
ISSUE NO. 25
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1 MIN READ
By Sofia
Often I try to self-reflect which turns into waves of rings around me. This picture reflects my days in general; life is static, surrounded by waves around.
ISSUE NO. 25
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1 MIN READ
By Anonymous
The cage stands bold, with its steel-clad mesh. For within its grip, it’s us it holds. Ten foot walls, of cold creme concrete. For outside we muster, like horses in stalls.
ISSUE NO. 25
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2 MIN READ