Expression of all the
man ick.  Too much
to seem rancid.
The plan, you seem
humble.  Horses
at gate, are anxious
to the free.  
Tie to me, the ties.  
To much poetry
means prosody.
Speechless in every
picture, find a sweet
bowl of a cereal.  A muse
so benovlent, find
at least a numbered
of meek.  When then
are we to subdude, by
loving reason
to true.  Talking much
due to treason, longing
such for Summer's season.
And fire flies, to my eyes
due lye, the colour
of sea foam
green. Here or there
misanthrope do these
same beings
at a glance
ask for shooting stars
to prance across
my movie screen
The Milky Way.    

Do or dame
and esta' blush,
this bill of rights.  
So they say,
He that hateth
my father
hateth me
also.  So dude,
let us make
clowns of us all
and teach
the proper way to
throw a star across
the galaxy.