The Polish things, they emanate from Poland. These backward leanings, theyโre aft from center. These brackish waters, they foul my disregard for things clearly. I trust my brothers not, they **** my sweet nature. My sisters wait to be waited upon. One punch to the throat away from incapacity they are. These Scandinavian things are from the Benelux countries baby. Once March goes down the tubes I wonโt be too sure of winter. The ties that bind me to Polish things are rotting back. My bros. are due for a hand-out, their self-supporting natures have evaporated. If ever there was a time for turtle neck ware that time has passed. My belled bottoms are pinned up following 2 amputations. My terror-cell sympathies during niggardly repasts elude pursuers. Trust babies, caked beyond cribs, sprawling & pooling at distances 3 feet. Anguish & a nunโs broken face. My ribs are tickled, my ticklers ribbed.