You’ve been talking about cock
-ing your head
at the things I’ve said, shi(f)t
-ing gears to better tit
-ate the masses.
You’ve been making lucid passes
at the topography of pneumonia,
the acid gravel of the sky’s last
lisp, the rasp of clouds that lope
along in wild, inglorious hoops.
(Ah, poop. There I go again.)
Where were we? Ranting, I’m sure,
of wile, and pent up (b)rave. Turning
on our heel(s),
firing on all pis
for weeks and weeks,
in bright blue streaks.
Prompted by Toads.