A Procrustean woman's tale
in an orbit does tell that this snitch
here wasn't Montgomery whether sound must hitch
with Pythagoras
that seldom erupt in despair
now dire hands with guilty chest
yet volcanoes bleed in the air

I fancy you
You fancy me
So we go to a fancy dinner
At a fancy place
With a fancy view
As far as the eyes can see
Everything is fancy
Since we both fancy each other
What better way to end this fancy night,
Than with a totally non fancy tongue-wilding sloppy wet smooch and kiss?

Arctic ice
scorching  fire
blustery  wind
roaring  ­waves
coarse sand
waterlogged land

it seems like the nature
can fathom my consciousness
because the feeling is as mutual
as the hitch.