And walking down the line,
And walking down the line,
Blood hot to fuel the limbs a-crying,
Struck not for rhythm, only rhyme,
Best for sighing
And dying in retreat.

And in my chest of pine,
A map rolled up so thin,
Drawn wit with all the twists of time,
Stray shores lit up by ocean-shine,
Uniquely won,
But smudged with soot.

Clouds from the soil – a sign!
This little mist of mine,
Will yearn to chuck its static tine
Among the tatters and the lint
That settled in my chest of pine,
a boneyard relic dank and bare
which homely cries
A ravaged syncopation twice.

And veering from the line,
And steering from my way,
A day or two to stay away
From bays of beasts and feasts of lice

and many a morsel,
lost to vermin that squirm
and grow and bite my
leg bleeds green;

Known to knaves that
waved grave flails and scattered ****,
that ****** its own to Hell,
where overdue a longish spell sent
Falling from place to grace
that face that drew a thousand beads of
albatross tears, of murky reeds
and cheating, stinking, reeking,
absolute, terrible,
miserable,
mistakes

Fall in line!

And burps another Rhine,
Boiled quaint in bogs of brine,
That pickles crisp the limp old rind
Of cogs and bands my chests of pine,
Buckskin drying all the time,
******* coke, doing lines,
tonguing chic,
pearly swine,
concede a side
I’ll never find.