The bare ****** twit-lay,
The amalgam-fed panic,
The tertiary under your bed.

The colors stained wholesome,
The moot-bares non-sharing,
The fake-jawed that leads to your red.

You closet them purely.
You love them with Soma.
That help-sleep that staves off the dread.

But,

Time restarts upon waking,
And age-speed does quicken,
As that ring falls
   from your finger

       like lead.