so must it be as a lamb's sweet foot is offered buttered
and a memory riced rheumy is soul taste toasted cumin-
within that taste a wide taught waste crosses shuttered
with puffy-eyed dazes down under daisies tautly shoed in.
When frail male hearts fail it prevails non-denominationally
and larded hard. Oompah, a blackened band puffs to grieve,
while a glance at belt bulge widths wilts to discretely deceive
a secret wanton scream over the tone-deaf wait, intentionally.
See what I mean? Say yes to me liar, I am no blue sooth
and neither and both are true at the solemn end of words:
a triangular pumpkin filled fritter dropped tray to booth
strays beyond salvation. Back to a kitchen, kitsch absurd
in days of dancing. Asked too soon to dray the grey pall,
why eulogize this long? Why wait? Reply. Folks, that's all.