Every tenth sundry
ven-
dor owns at least a
hundred and seven-
ty free flop-
of-the line gamey
loconut
brief cakes loved by lep-
ers prying
into malty poor
pound
pay dirt
left dangling
both uncodifried
and super seeded with the wood-
en
heaped goons of small and
in-
significant re-
lated risk bakers
misusing
government fun guy.
The Lep, has washed hands of St. Pat’s, does lean
and fiddles in space, against tree, routine.
The pot at the end of sun,
was found a bit late; one won.
Lep’s blind to the coot who handles gold-green.
After his fiddling, is over and done,
Lep gets to a-counting, his coins, for fun.
He scratches his head, and blows
his stack, as he rips his clothes.
On hunt, Lep will go, round up rat, with gun.
Not fair, when the sun has gone down; coot cheats.
Now poor, Lep must find ev’ry coin on streets.
The pot, has been stirred, like bees;
emptied by the rat - he’ll seize.
Lep’s gun (is a cane) - an instrument that beats.
The fool and Lep’s money was found..tick-tock.
“If you found my gold, before snooze of clock,
then all would be fair…it’s not.
If I have a gun, you’re shot.
Instead, you, I cane, outline you with chalk.”
Old coot, parts with gold, awakens dizzy.
He coughs, and he laughs, at the Lep’s tizzy.
Next year, he must beat the clock.
and keep, in pocket, a glock.
For gold, the rat baits; the fiddler’s busy.
Never be bewildered
That my instincts submerged
In the malevolence and
Dearness of the world
Could have been reinvigorated
By you, saved and renewed
Just like a resurging lep
When the latter opts out
I am created of giant solid rocks
Stationary but mutable
And you the damp feel
Of winter fur lies
Songs of fresh breeze
Declines as cascades
And my lyrics being lawns
Of undulating grass
Silent chirps and murmurs
I expected less but asked nothing
That deep undemanding tenderness
I gravely wish to offer a little space
To achieve my dreams in yours.
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