Such fun when daggers run steep
like forgotten hills where we used to frolic
as children, fear never played
how unsuccessful when so formal.

Rider called in, rider to run free
over to mad islands
when no papers stick like glue
to bureaucrap.

Right over here, donkey
tuck your tail, and give your print
work till your fingers curve
no more.

Think we ought to split the sunset
but leave some diamonds behind
never know what a soul may need.