Powerhousefor Thatcher Keats my father jogs 50 miles barenaked my mother glows like snow my sister racks her brain for ways to remove the ought from slaughter so much for show business heat descends and those three owls flap up to the attic frost crackles and those jackrabbits pound it to dust so many people are quite exhausted so many are hungry many don't know where they're heading to sod maybe, to muck or smoke oh little brother— come over here where I'm slouching in my terry robe dribble some milk on my wrists kiss my anklets would you believe I am developing a blister  |
|
||||
| Copyright © 1999 – 2024 Juked |
|
