Take my hand and you’ll be well,
I cannot tell you how I dwell on the absentmindedness of your sell.
You ask me have I come here for pleasure,
I sigh in despair and leave a great lingering glare,
This is preposterous, I am not monstrous.
Only for your hand, do I come, my lovely crumb.

Close your eyes and count to ten,
Why do you pout, you need zen.
Society makes you count your lads?
Lets clad in white and shout at them *****.
You want to hide in mesh?
No, I say you stand up and salute the coppice underneath your flesh.

Impulsive drones, these machos you have flimflammed,

Wolfing your proportionality like a **** brewed nectar of grapes,

When flimsy limb frills no more interweave, expertise reprogrammed,

Are you the lone from infinite frames murmuring, “once more, he escapes”?

Indignation ******* broadcasted, ferocity wrought into the fiber,

Prior, where narcissistic pathway architecture once lodged aloft,

Calloused acknowledgement of her duffel, abrupt pang, necessity for a prescriber,

My mettle is feeble of the soap opera, hanging one’s topper in my breath, I coughed,

The cauldron perpetually gurgling with spume, mingling itself,

Gyrating with giddiness as if my noggin was a top trinket,

No dust crumbs in any bustle ever jubilated atop my pit-a-patting instrument’s

Masses are anticipating for my enveloping blanket,

I perhaps beam till the cattle wham the timepiece, though seldom do I chuckle,

Shall journey with the ensuing waft, no comma for a buckle.