The Polish things, they emanate from Poland. These
backward leanings, they’re 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 won’t 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 nun’s broken face. My
ribs are tickled, my ticklers ribbed.