I was on a lower floor waiting to know her more and soarremind me when if once again I grab a pen before I shed a tear
and bore, as if at war, thru what in fact was not much more
or all that fat in groups once fore-shadowing of
that place above
where i was bored
some way back when in that place then before i scored
a few new points higher than joints we did enjoy but were so toy
compared to all
that would befall us by way of the basketball
and put more bounce
into our crawl than any ounce ever installed
orange u. glad,
bigger than fattest of had bags,
whose lazy lads behind would lag,
of some sativa only shiva
coulda weaved another flag
to be more loyal
than those on the edge of pledging they would boil
over when we didn't sense it happen then
but as we toiled, all the royal maranoil
lifted labs and sifted soil
to pour down and make some child still on file
form a smile out of frowns on the rebound:
as one good fly'll start a pile if the honey smells like money
to all those who out to doze but then when when dry 'll cry it's funny
so do us who in a rush as if we must
the extra mile wander onto and go yonder when we want to
find a fountain that will fuss
until a fat new oil-flush
has in a flash disguised as hash
given us headphones till we sped home
and then fed on the one bread who
with big basketfuls in fact promised us honestly still led to
something more than most misread/mispronounced Dead
as if the Dawn of thee is
seen by all who tear apart the seams
of the green sty they thought
was sly to slide on by
when all the beams
of the bright things they think so high
are in a sky
they still deny is underneath by many feet
their upturned noses
with a smell for only roses now in wreaths
when the one sound of the
so-sudden and profound
is only proven in the oven underground
the price then paid
for their fair shade with oils laid
too thick for some
of the same games you stayed and played
out in the fun you're fond to worship
like the son who flew the first ship
toward one the voice at home would surely shun
and bring you then
and too well done to what is rare and waiting there
below the mediums you
mummify and mumble about still
in not-so-humble hymns you nimbly hum
that will your children ill.
