When I’m writing poems
I hastily think I got-’em
The deadliest mistake
That I witlessly make

I never was a worthy plectrum
Yet you were a fine instrument
Cruising in your solar spectrum
I got sunstroke to my detriment

You were not a weather-fend
Still, I followed your course
Then, we reached a dead-end
Where all feelings got hoarse

My mouth’s speaking
Doesn’t mean a thing
Unless the said is heard
Loud and clear by a third

Stay in the hood
Safe and secure
A potential good
Will be obscured

Got wasted
Fell on the sun
****-naked
It wasn’t fun

More than tipsy
On a balloon
Saw the gypsy
Crashed the moon

Dipped his feet
In a crater lake
Non-stop drumbeat
Heavy headache

Before him, parked
Was witches-broom
The day was marked
By magic mushroom