The oil it pops,
God it's hot,
This lot, I's my dots.

Scatter plots, disconnected spots
All I get taught,
Is sought and bought.

The dripping mops,
The spinning tops
They talk, and they walk.

The failing crops
grasshopper hop,
The flop will never stop.

Sopping wet socks,
The snow it locks
The doors and panes that lock.

Southward the birds flock,
In the trees that Hawk
Avoid men's cinderblocks

The future sulks,
as time does its stalk
of all upcoming squawks.