arson farson
larson? pio
leo trio el feo
angle fangle
his mite
is frite
scrap flap
trap slap hlap,
harun al rash
enter trash, mash
grate great
***** sheikh
eel feel meal really real
aeal steel molecular
trust bust, shrekular
even bush
shrugs off
the north tower.

I will make a fangle of mechanisms,
a creature with iron snouts
and concrete aortas.

Its fevered howl will wake the duplexes
perched on sloped land,
built from collected tins and bottle caps.

Boys sooted in grief will balk like ravens,
chew sweet dip, and spit,
but never reach the foreman’s gate.

They’ll crave a tavern with antlers as chandeliers
where a black flame burns
on the brim of a zinfandel.

But tonight they’ll gristle through streets
to a stale room
where fluorescent lights blanch a young widow’s skin.

Basic cable ministries will flick and dim
in the homes of the wigged ladies who wait for them—
the howl keeps them

breathless, each of them fearing
the slow swallow from a snake’s mouth
to its furnace.

I once scrungled a tungus, dubbed Binglo Bungus,
Whose cungles were trungly, and cuds cumpily cunk.
But his drungles did fungle, so sadly he bungled,
And without hesitation, he glunked.

Four fingles he fangled, when, biggaly bangled,
Approached not a crowd, but an army of glimps.
And they clinkled his binkle, as he chinkily changled,
But The Bungus stopped not for the bimps.

He dringled those hob-glimps! Their ****** was drompled!
Their pebuses, feeble, buckled under the frung.
And he chungled their drungles, with fury he plungled.
To this day, not a glimp stands to cung.

But his fangling, untrungled, was far from the fringus,
And he fangled on forward another five flinks.
On the fifth flink, he bebussed, as his fangle was pepis,
So he humpled the drumpling ****.

Sir Bungus fangled homeward, his blumpus was tungled.
His drungles rejonked, for the fungling was done.
They erected a frangus to plingus The Bungus,
And the drumpling **** that he'd won.

Distangle fangle from the yore
To ken the roots of yon afore
And see whereof they tread

A roguish minstrel, cowlish clad,
With spritish garb, a-prancin’ mad,
Bridged east the river bed

He came a prancin’ oh did he,
As like the wind with a fiddle-dee-dee,
As like as like a clown

He waltzed and hopped and twirled about
Whilst passing through the old redoubt
Unto the midst of town

Children flocked to hark his air
Resounding from the market square
Pervading every nook

They waltzed and hopped and twirled about
From all around the old redoubt
To chance a better look

He shimmied left, he darted right,
And marveled at the wondrous sight
As wee ones danced along

He raised his pipe, began to play,
And all about began to sway
Enchanted by his song

“Come hey, come hence, come fiddle-dee-dee!”
His call was as the roiling sea
That pilfers from the dunes

Now with his ducklings all-in-tow,
He swift bridged west the river’s flow
Beguiling with his tunes

Applied the minstrel to his pipe
And nary tot nor guttersnipe
Were wont to be unled

The wee ones went unto his tune
That vexed the waning heart of June
And to the mountain fed

And all of them are dead