i die of a secondary
scoop of today's
worth of tomorrow's
skip in
what agitates
a hope for
the scythe for:
             the never
lived and never died...
but always
scouting for the newly
bred,
sanctioned,
and fitted
to almost quake
with fear when
blessed with the
adjective of:
one, who is to foster;
lucky me...
every cat is somehow
likely an equivalent of
making
     chequers a chess...
like:
that tabloid noun:
BABY...
i almost want
to care...
but whatever care is,
is easily replaced
by the Chinese
bulletproof
squandron...
      and i was millennial:
and i said:
******* too...
   go beg where
beggars are most welcome.
what?!
   the ****
are you looking for
around here?
    scout's
skive worth of
    blisters worth savings
dough?
acne: limp **** protest
scratch funds?
   well...
guess even i was
'e' born on morse.