What mind is this, what tumbling, fumbling prophet? Am ghost. Am spitted roast- feeding sick and dying darlings nestled in the dewy greens. Sentinel begs the bluey-handed Dixie. Comes over, watches with a tick tick tick. Blind mother begets a deafened son and a two-father trance goes wayside. What mind is whist, trumping hearts and fickle asses? Some thump revelry to our passions play. Goodly be goodly, no matter what our bed precludes. For I've been where I've seen lewd nights make crude rangers on the morning's road. Part two goes quick-draw: egg-shell whites paint the chorus 'till it reeks of navy, where haste awry bests the vested communions of slowness. I'm all right. Ribbons baste my bread. Chickens cluck. Crows crow Gershwin when they are dead. So how do bum poets go working years before they're born, drawing art from artistry, finessing flavor from sheets of tripe? Pedal on my Suffolk queen, mesmerizing the freebased masses. Soul salutes you legging out the final pounds of a back flat tire. Hummed swill builds varnish in thy throat. So you puke wordy sap with a year's diversion captured in the top bills all gobbing game. Advertisement's witch or enough, we grab that starlight and... Run mother fever run like life's a gun, breaking hearts along the way to breaking yours. Whence calm you came among us. This should toughen how it ever was: weaken it never will. This promise I promise- that cold steeps cold water to the top. While cussing like it's evil mens' portents shimmy in a shadow graced by happenstance. And the Devil she were, I'd villain up Daisy to look like you. 'Cause she sure ain't gonna be happy when she finds out you're her with me.