what fun! look at you,

picking out nice things!

 

you hotsteppa.

frumpy,

with a Rubenesque tattoo of

your own house.

those whom brung fungal lunges,

that's how come. 

 

like the not smart child,

cushioned, insulated, bonnetted.

all them themes do delight.

pretending bitterly habitually with zero hitches.

 

a sage hare steady goin' potty

in a noovo west,

thither well-nigh mine 8-bit rampart.

 

thou art neither my chill initiative,

nor my empire wasted.

you're overtly stroking it.

 

so my view tilts upward to the sky:

sheer yachts ablaze.

clear or almost clear.

at this point,

what the fuck am i looking at?

 

do unto them and do it again.

 

annexed reins gulched sweepstakes,

Trish niblets bi d-listed cheapskate.