Perhapsingly on Sunday
If the bleak-end hacked for blood
I could take a spin in the old gorevette
Down to Blighton where the vibe is crude,
Where April rolls the coolest blunts
Dreading lilacs and their smoky crud
Of wishfulness. Beyond this extended ketaphor
Only reason spoils the mood.
Having none and wanting more -
A conceit started out so spicely, but finished far from good.
Oh well, I guess. The horror I suppose. The horror.