Pencil Press Rap

"Catch that cloud with an upturned eye," Said the spy with the sourpuss, sober cry, When or whether, the weather of feathers fly high, What are we but watchers of the sighing fly? Whose wings chop winds with whirling rolls, Bent in the front of the centerfold gold, A pyrite prison ground in English pound patrol. Pussy-foot in parchment, purloin politic by drip control. So when the locked choke of rotten blood of shank and loin, Beneath a twist of tumbled turn, of thumb and flipped coin, Tossed in the tunnels of tin towers by the ton tops join, To the castles in the east tipped spires spiked to your groins, Popping, and prodding in the pupils of the papal pedophiles, Emerging human minds from a wine for a while, Slurping, and burping on the barfed-bile soaked brain smile, Smirking snake coils caravan diamond skinny socks of argyle. "Now catch the sky with an upturned eye," Said the spy with the dank dribble goblet drunk dry.