Grizzled-brown sound of tuba walking,
In the way of circles you wobble step, inverse,
As does a broken waltz, bearly graceful.
You sniff your way a crush alpine meadows
And making sense for you are lowly berries,
Rude as any intruder might be in the foothills
Of the Gods. 'More wine for the great Polyphemus,'
Say the drunk brambles, brighty doomed sailors
All a wash by behemothing jaws which hang
Them over. Yet Ursa, if in minor you must play
By the cosmos' stilted view, great major, it is they
Who glare more distant, as if you really cared.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 5:00 PM UTC
Grizzled-brown sound of tuba walking,
In the way of circles you wobble step, inverse,
As does a broken waltz, bearly graceful.
You sniff your way a crush alpine meadows
And making sense for you are lowly berries,
Rude as any intruder might be in the foothills
Of the Gods. 'More wine for the great Polyphemus,'
Say the drunk brambles, brighty doomed sailors
All a wash by behemothing jaws which hang
Them over. Yet Ursa, if in minor you must play
By the cosmos' stilted view, great major, it is they
Who glare more distant, as if you really cared.
