"thatching" poems - Hello Poetry

"thatching" poems

It's within the grown out roots where the Garden Owl still hoots Sings the melancholy song Of how the blue eyed girl was wrong. It's within the thatching of the dwelling And a failed attempt at fortune telling. Beyond the garden of the bugs Beyond the magpies and the slugs A moon was folded into quarters Grind it with pestle and mortar Strip it down to crater powder Feel it till the song sounds louder The Garden Owl sings his song Of how the blue eyed girl was wrong And under the brown thatched roof The girl detests her blue eyed youth

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Dec 4, 2014

Dec 4, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC

It's within the grown out roots where the Garden Owl still hoots Sings the melancholy song Of how the blue eyed girl was wrong. It's within the thatching of the dwelling And a failed attempt at fortune telling. Beyond the garden of the bugs Beyond the magpies and the slugs A moon was folded into quarters Grind it with pestle and mortar Strip it down to crater powder Feel it till the song sounds louder The Garden Owl sings his song Of how the blue eyed girl was wrong And under the brown thatched roof The girl detests her blue eyed youth

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I've begun to spot patterns more clearly, the brick homes that set around this suburbia have begun to resemble the lovely spots of a giraffe perhaps because I have become so used to ogling their grace, I couldn't be sure, but I've begun to spot patterns on me, bold, odd, rectangular blocks honey-ed to my thin skin: People. They are all around me. Yet all I see are those blocks thatching to me, I think they're in search of a shorter neck.

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Apr 11, 2014

Apr 11, 2014 at 10:58 PM UTC

Is your giraffe lonely?

I've begun to spot patterns more clearly, the brick homes that set around this suburbia have begun to resemble the lovely spots of a giraffe perhaps because I have become so used to ogling their grace, I couldn't be sure, but I've begun to spot patterns on me, bold, odd, rectangular blocks honey-ed to my thin skin: People. They are all around me. Yet all I see are those blocks thatching to me, I think they're in search of a shorter neck.

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Harsh wind screaming moaning with the crisp bite of Autumn night Dark shadows dancing tossing with the branches of bare grey Elms The lanes are winding uncurling in the pale orange glow of headlights Sudden hedgerows green edging the limits of the night Power-cut darkness all around silhouettes strange in the headlight beam No farm lights distant on the Tor guiding beacons of open field and place Cottages shuddering their thatching thrilled chimneys smoking message-morse Pub signs banging wildly flapping in a crazy dance inside candles flickering distorted patterns in tiny panes of rounded glass Old stone steeple steady dull toned bell catching a ride on the wind to the copse And still the lanes thread out beam-born a ribbon of pebbles and stone stretching into the night until they melt into the flat black tarmac of the motorway.

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Nov 15, 2016

Nov 15, 2016 at 5:35 AM UTC

October in Swallowfield

Harsh wind screaming moaning with the crisp bite of Autumn night Dark shadows dancing tossing with the branches of bare grey Elms The lanes are winding uncurling in the pale orange glow of headlights Sudden hedgerows green edging the limits of the night Power-cut darkness all around silhouettes strange in the headlight beam No farm lights distant on the Tor guiding beacons of open field and place Cottages shuddering their thatching thrilled chimneys smoking message-morse Pub signs banging wildly flapping in a crazy dance inside candles flickering distorted patterns in tiny panes of rounded glass Old stone steeple steady dull toned bell catching a ride on the wind to the copse And still the lanes thread out beam-born a ribbon of pebbles and stone stretching into the night until they melt into the flat black tarmac of the motorway.

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They were different times The only thing I know about old man Venn He used to tie two cats' tails together Hang them over the washing line To watch them fight Cruel old man Venn There was a man in the village He killed dead pigs If a farmer had a pig die He'd cart it home then squeal and shriek Like a dying pig Then pass off the meat as fresh Everyone knew about it A couple in the village were always arguing One night the man said he was going to drown himself In the pond She said do you go an' do it in someone else's pond I ha' got to drink that water Jim said there'll be a fire in the village afore long Russell said how d'you know that then? Down at Hall Farm I see him stripping the paint off his window With a blow torch Right near the thatch He knows better 'an that Sure enough the old farmhouse burnt to the ground He built a bungalow with the insurance money Old Jim was right again Russell met his wife to be during the war He had a few days leave but not long enough to go home So he stayed with his mate in Lancashire Ended up marrying his mate's sister She came down to Suffolk One of the local women said to her Where do you come from? Lancashire she said I didn't think you was English she said A farmer said to Jim That wholly made me sweat to write out your cheque For thatching this year Med me sweat fust said Jim For hurdle making they would cut ash pole in the wood Using hand axes When they finished the women from nearby cottages Would come and pick up the chips to start their fires

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Jul 20, 2013

Jul 20, 2013 at 4:36 PM UTC

Stories my old boss told me

They were different times The only thing I know about old man Venn He used to tie two cats' tails together Hang them over the washing line To watch them fight Cruel old man Venn There was a man in the village He killed dead pigs If a farmer had a pig die He'd cart it home then squeal and shriek Like a dying pig Then pass off the meat as fresh Everyone knew about it A couple in the village were always arguing One night the man said he was going to drown himself In the pond She said do you go an' do it in someone else's pond I ha' got to drink that water Jim said there'll be a fire in the village afore long Russell said how d'you know that then? Down at Hall Farm I see him stripping the paint off his window With a blow torch Right near the thatch He knows better 'an that Sure enough the old farmhouse burnt to the ground He built a bungalow with the insurance money Old Jim was right again Russell met his wife to be during the war He had a few days leave but not long enough to go home So he stayed with his mate in Lancashire Ended up marrying his mate's sister She came down to Suffolk One of the local women said to her Where do you come from? Lancashire she said I didn't think you was English she said A farmer said to Jim That wholly made me sweat to write out your cheque For thatching this year Med me sweat fust said Jim For hurdle making they would cut ash pole in the wood Using hand axes When they finished the women from nearby cottages Would come and pick up the chips to start their fires

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Back in the old days before combine harvesters came in, harvest time was much more labour intensive. All the crops were loaded by hand on to horse-drawn carts and taken to the stack yard, where an array of often beautifully crafted stacks would be built, and thatched. It was a very busy time of the year for the thatchers, who would work from six in the morning till nine at night for several weeks until all the stacks were safely protected from the rain. After the last stack was finished, my old boss was paid the overtime due to him. He remembered that one year it was just enough to buy himself a new pair of work boots! One year, before handing over payment for thatching his stacks, a farmer named Mr Cutting said to Jim; "That made me sweat to write your cheque this year." Jim quickly replied; "Med me sweat fust!"

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Dec 12, 2016

Dec 12, 2016 at 5:22 AM UTC

Made me sweat first

Back in the old days before combine harvesters came in, harvest time was much more labour intensive. All the crops were loaded by hand on to horse-drawn carts and taken to the stack yard, where an array of often beautifully crafted stacks would be built, and thatched. It was a very busy time of the year for the thatchers, who would work from six in the morning till nine at night for several weeks until all the stacks were safely protected from the rain. After the last stack was finished, my old boss was paid the overtime due to him. He remembered that one year it was just enough to buy himself a new pair of work boots! One year, before handing over payment for thatching his stacks, a farmer named Mr Cutting said to Jim; "That made me sweat to write your cheque this year." Jim quickly replied; "Med me sweat fust!"

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Ok, first the basics If you turn on the tap, just a dribble And hold a straw, just off vertical underneath The water will flow to the end of the straw And drip off Imagine many straws, densely packed Just the tips showing All sloping at an angle And fixed to a steep roof Water (rain) will be shed And the roof will remain dry The steeper the roof The quicker the rain will shed But the steeper the roof The more material is used Then there's the thickness The thicker the better surely? Well, the thicker the layer of straws The flatter the angle at which they lay And so the less efficient they are at shedding water Thatching Like life Is a compromise

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Mar 23, 2015

Mar 23, 2015 at 4:02 PM UTC

Ok, first the basics If you turn on the tap, just a dribble And hold a straw, just off vertical underneath The water will flow to the end of the straw And drip off Imagine many straws, densely packed Just the tips showing All sloping at an angle And fixed to a steep roof Water (rain) will be shed And the roof will remain dry The steeper the roof The quicker the rain will shed But the steeper the roof The more material is used Then there's the thickness The thicker the better surely? Well, the thicker the layer of straws The flatter the angle at which they lay And so the less efficient they are at shedding water Thatching Like life Is a compromise

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Magic tears, any time, anytime an old man can share, some subtle sense that the kids are alright, life makes sense, over a span, of three generations, over lapping, -mindtimespace pre-excavated bubbles of happy old men center the evolving sequence sheltering open minds and soft hearts being there, inbetween what's coming down stirring quantum foam into active magic surficant applied with sticky gnosisnot as hot tar on a roof, or thatching, all in steady ready peace, occurrence-easy, expanding at will, becoming as aha at once as all zeitgeist guests do, pop a grand parent bubble, winking at each, defined as one of a kind, no two alike, and, as a matter of fact, making your heaven on earth like mine would cost you the hell I paid, and there's no need, things, we agree, you, dear reader, and I, a we, of some notion once given thought to float on, after taking a famous great notion, to jump in the ocean and drown, done and proceeding to drown, down, down I lived to tell, I decided climbing out from depths of angst, actual wrong thinking, twisted proverbs, and jokes with no story. Nuns or skunks… what's black and white, and black and white, and black, and white…. rolling down a hill, or it could be cop suvs, too. Right, Or a yen yank thang. right. - the route from the bus stop - blind milk horse, what did you say? I was paying no attention, then smallest, though not youngest, granddaughter finishes, Magic tears, are when you see another person cry, and you cry, too. Grandpa said, yeah, that's a gift, like a subtle super power. She said, yes, she knows.

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Mar 24, 2023

Mar 24, 2023 at 8:55 PM UTC

yes, I know, she said

Magic tears, any time, anytime an old man can share, some subtle sense that the kids are alright, life makes sense, over a span, of three generations, over lapping, -mindtimespace pre-excavated bubbles of happy old men center the evolving sequence sheltering open minds and soft hearts being there, inbetween what's coming down stirring quantum foam into active magic surficant applied with sticky gnosisnot as hot tar on a roof, or thatching, all in steady ready peace, occurrence-easy, expanding at will, becoming as aha at once as all zeitgeist guests do, pop a grand parent bubble, winking at each, defined as one of a kind, no two alike, and, as a matter of fact, making your heaven on earth like mine would cost you the hell I paid, and there's no need, things, we agree, you, dear reader, and I, a we, of some notion once given thought to float on, after taking a famous great notion, to jump in the ocean and drown, done and proceeding to drown, down, down I lived to tell, I decided climbing out from depths of angst, actual wrong thinking, twisted proverbs, and jokes with no story. Nuns or skunks… what's black and white, and black and white, and black, and white…. rolling down a hill, or it could be cop suvs, too. Right, Or a yen yank thang. right. - the route from the bus stop - blind milk horse, what did you say? I was paying no attention, then smallest, though not youngest, granddaughter finishes, Magic tears, are when you see another person cry, and you cry, too. Grandpa said, yeah, that's a gift, like a subtle super power. She said, yes, she knows.

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However softly do the heavens surrender to the soft thatching, Through which a delicate silver scratches the path. The brittle night kisses the skin And leaves subtle rosy lipstick The man is full this summers night He can almost be seen, waving Saluting the crystal sky as if to say A word or two of keen wisdom Alas, he cannot be heard, the distance too great Scream into a pillow and lay to sleep But a night owl he must be For the night light’s still on. With no more reserve than a drunkard She and I part the broken mirror with puerile strokes. The splendors of a woodland romance Offering more than can be had in this world. More swimming than waltzing, Through the pool of molten silver The moon has left us to play in We place each step correctly Out here only the elders bear witness to passing, She and I, And adrift in the Garden, senseless of the path, The shadows offer a place to hide. A niche in the woods is found by I And anxiously taken up by she A seat is made away from the world And begin to float in the warmth of it, she and I. Drowning in bitter yearning, That, a liquid chilled by the spring night, My hand finds its way to hers, And we together. Us.

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Dec 26, 2011

Dec 26, 2011 at 1:36 AM UTC

However softly do the heavens surrender to the soft thatching, Through which a delicate silver scratches the path. The brittle night kisses the skin And leaves subtle rosy lipstick The man is full this summers night He can almost be seen, waving Saluting the crystal sky as if to say A word or two of keen wisdom Alas, he cannot be heard, the distance too great Scream into a pillow and lay to sleep But a night owl he must be For the night light’s still on. With no more reserve than a drunkard She and I part the broken mirror with puerile strokes. The splendors of a woodland romance Offering more than can be had in this world. More swimming than waltzing, Through the pool of molten silver The moon has left us to play in We place each step correctly Out here only the elders bear witness to passing, She and I, And adrift in the Garden, senseless of the path, The shadows offer a place to hide. A niche in the woods is found by I And anxiously taken up by she A seat is made away from the world And begin to float in the warmth of it, she and I. Drowning in bitter yearning, That, a liquid chilled by the spring night, My hand finds its way to hers, And we together. Us.

Continue reading...

The light dims and the dead raise their glasses To the wine of wasted, blood-streaked tears That permeate my mind. I lift my hand and reach For them, but I am left with dripping dark As the spirits of my dead emotions seek release. As freelance feelings take their leave, am I human? The thought of thatching shattered glasses Brings back the dead, their forming tears Mysteriously absent. And so they reach The clammy, clotted, ****** hands through dark Eyes; I scream that they might release. But will the cold hands pity, and me release? The light has fled the black irises: inhuman Fusion of animation and empty glasses In their eyes, like mine. Dry, lacking tears That life gives. She bustles in the kitchen, reaches For the saffron. But their souls remain dark. And my sorrowing saffron soul is poisoned dark. Let me go! I sigh release. I am not human. I am broken glass. A fading fear of tears, A soul outside my reach. I am no fool; I do not claim to reach Outside the world of dreaded dark In which I live without release. The creeping hands of Death are human, As I am. Cast aside my riveting rose glasses That rivers may run swift in my trailing tears. Finally, the tears. My own icy hand does reach And wipes away the shifting dark. The dead, as always, seek the just release, But they are not human. They do not wear my eyes, my glasses. So raise the glass to my trying tears, I reach and find no dark. My feeling now released, I say that I am human.

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May 19, 2012

May 19, 2012 at 3:41 AM UTC

renee-joan-brown

Sestina of Humanity

The light dims and the dead raise their glasses To the wine of wasted, blood-streaked tears That permeate my mind. I lift my hand and reach For them, but I am left with dripping dark As the spirits of my dead emotions seek release. As freelance feelings take their leave, am I human? The thought of thatching shattered glasses Brings back the dead, their forming tears Mysteriously absent. And so they reach The clammy, clotted, ****** hands through dark Eyes; I scream that they might release. But will the cold hands pity, and me release? The light has fled the black irises: inhuman Fusion of animation and empty glasses In their eyes, like mine. Dry, lacking tears That life gives. She bustles in the kitchen, reaches For the saffron. But their souls remain dark. And my sorrowing saffron soul is poisoned dark. Let me go! I sigh release. I am not human. I am broken glass. A fading fear of tears, A soul outside my reach. I am no fool; I do not claim to reach Outside the world of dreaded dark In which I live without release. The creeping hands of Death are human, As I am. Cast aside my riveting rose glasses That rivers may run swift in my trailing tears. Finally, the tears. My own icy hand does reach And wipes away the shifting dark. The dead, as always, seek the just release, But they are not human. They do not wear my eyes, my glasses. So raise the glass to my trying tears, I reach and find no dark. My feeling now released, I say that I am human.

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My fusion-felt Atmosphere, Is heavy handed But I'm just- Pedestrian salt, And licorice findings. This symbiosis of-- Nylon webs tweak Reactor cord, Which I see-- Sewing segments to My face. I-as-stygian Thatching; drown Synthetic wastrels.

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Jan 12, 2015

Jan 12, 2015 at 3:31 PM UTC

My fusion-felt Atmosphere, Is heavy handed But I'm just- Pedestrian salt, And licorice findings. This symbiosis of-- Nylon webs tweak Reactor cord, Which I see-- Sewing segments to My face. I-as-stygian Thatching; drown Synthetic wastrels.

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Synchronic simple step be yonder, yo, go, no go, si, go on and on and on … so yust so yust to be we once went we split, full moiety, each ac- act- act-ion -jello-timed- lobes blobs plasmoieted mind parabolic, by yah, Arching fly call it, I got it, call his name, yah who done did done GOT caught the funny parts. Read the books. Now. At this point, cognitive native child formed in my mortal moment per-ifery-wasery rules secret se- per seance sacred made knowledge, state of knowing entered, left ab-rupturously, grief, lief left easy, re lief, sigh good grief. We were all we- are Charlie Brown, forever interrupted, as if once, however long ago, we knew we were one thing, then we knew we were merely words between things you knew and did not do. and you know you imagined this is that. The novel experience, this side. Post-done and paid off. Precautionary. Click. Why not, who is asking, hangs, as pregnant pause über Þe olde excessive easing hook, who are we, and what are we doing, we who were to survive receiving asked knowledge, the easy-does-it tree, shows us the easy way, this way dis-eased. The lie and the profundus is merely piercing. Flatten the spikes, be atop the bed of nails. Wait. Funda-mental, bottom mind, first id-ego otherwise mind, frame a being, be a one, and not the other, here, there, there, it's okeh, eh, ok? E-see easing easy living, being been done, doing all that old trees do, after all, we wait to feel the fire beetles, land and lay their eggs among our ash, and swollen-cracked nuts, fire calls them into heat, in season. Such things we learned from the ant people who saved us in reeds, thatching from roofs floating, maybe, really, lifeboats, but think a tsunami through, rush incursive and excursive. Lay down a layer of plausibility, evoke applause clap each hand once. Curtain.

0

Apr 28, 2023

Apr 28, 2023 at 2:01 AM UTC

Synchronic simple step be yonder, yo, go, no go, si, go on and on and on … so yust so yust to be we once went we split, full moiety, each ac- act- act-ion -jello-timed- lobes blobs plasmoieted mind parabolic, by yah, Arching fly call it, I got it, call his name, yah who done did done GOT caught the funny parts. Read the books. Now. At this point, cognitive native child formed in my mortal moment per-ifery-wasery rules secret se- per seance sacred made knowledge, state of knowing entered, left ab-rupturously, grief, lief left easy, re lief, sigh good grief. We were all we- are Charlie Brown, forever interrupted, as if once, however long ago, we knew we were one thing, then we knew we were merely words between things you knew and did not do. and you know you imagined this is that. The novel experience, this side. Post-done and paid off. Precautionary. Click. Why not, who is asking, hangs, as pregnant pause über Þe olde excessive easing hook, who are we, and what are we doing, we who were to survive receiving asked knowledge, the easy-does-it tree, shows us the easy way, this way dis-eased. The lie and the profundus is merely piercing. Flatten the spikes, be atop the bed of nails. Wait. Funda-mental, bottom mind, first id-ego otherwise mind, frame a being, be a one, and not the other, here, there, there, it's okeh, eh, ok? E-see easing easy living, being been done, doing all that old trees do, after all, we wait to feel the fire beetles, land and lay their eggs among our ash, and swollen-cracked nuts, fire calls them into heat, in season. Such things we learned from the ant people who saved us in reeds, thatching from roofs floating, maybe, really, lifeboats, but think a tsunami through, rush incursive and excursive. Lay down a layer of plausibility, evoke applause clap each hand once. Curtain.

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I was twenty years old when I started this lark I'm older now but just as daft Cos up and down all day I still go In the wind and rain and sun and snow Earning a dollar, earning a dime On them old thatched roofs where I spend all my time. I must have done hundreds in that time Each one a challenge, a mountain to climb Keeping the water out, leaving my mark Making the cottages pretty and smart Earning a penny, earning a pound On them old thatched roofs where I can be found. The work is hard, no easy days No room here for lazy ways I'm not quite as keen as I used to be Those mountains get steeper it seems to me I'm looking forward to an easier time When I leave those old thatched rooves behind.

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Dec 9, 2011

Dec 9, 2011 at 2:40 PM UTC

I was twenty years old when I started this lark I'm older now but just as daft Cos up and down all day I still go In the wind and rain and sun and snow Earning a dollar, earning a dime On them old thatched roofs where I spend all my time. I must have done hundreds in that time Each one a challenge, a mountain to climb Keeping the water out, leaving my mark Making the cottages pretty and smart Earning a penny, earning a pound On them old thatched roofs where I can be found. The work is hard, no easy days No room here for lazy ways I'm not quite as keen as I used to be Those mountains get steeper it seems to me I'm looking forward to an easier time When I leave those old thatched rooves behind.

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Ever present percolating through the words squeezing between minutes wisping back and fro awe struck and delighted by our emanating glow it flows in friction absent motion herding to a circle appraising assessing until, curious and slow it reaches at times to pluck and decorate the ear at times to rake a handful to the pockets retreating as we scuttle to fill the lingering void gazing at the shrinking puncture thatching it with open palms huddling in human warmth shining more than ever

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Aug 1, 2018

Aug 1, 2018 at 10:21 AM UTC

Ever present percolating through the words squeezing between minutes wisping back and fro awe struck and delighted by our emanating glow it flows in friction absent motion herding to a circle appraising assessing until, curious and slow it reaches at times to pluck and decorate the ear at times to rake a handful to the pockets retreating as we scuttle to fill the lingering void gazing at the shrinking puncture thatching it with open palms huddling in human warmth shining more than ever

Continue reading...

in a haze of morning hours, scrambling for paper, amidst regular intervals of tingling: days splintered by loveliness, sharp aches, clustering thoughts of blue snares. summer's decline. your eyes. tumult. but, what can or can't be done? seemingly everything. i just hide. second nature. paradise by weekend, far reaches before long. isolation held in firm grip. substitutions for the lonely: mud, rock, leaf, water. simplicity. and then, as clear as sunlight, another visage of your eyes, grand blue snares; a warm, glowing scar, i am full of glimmer and a recurrent dull ache. can't help it. don't stop. affections ran deep like trenches, swift like gutters, rained upon, forever. nameless breath sent to or from this greater scheme, the mechanics of my inner chest, sorrow poured out over the stars. all seemingly as distant. i miss you always. but, you, wild& capable, carrying everything with a grin, give no reason for lament. you, out there, behind doors or in thickets, thatching all skies with rivets of joy. and, i, under slow-beating sun, ain't seen to smile so much in forever. but all flying creatures fly. as misery did migrate, so too do fear and consistency, heartache and certainty. such is the path the world will always spin over. so, i write out new and old songs on rust-laden heartstrings. lay lips on nothing, typically. keep on breathing, singing, laughing and spinning, as the world does, knowing all the while that in the recesses of my chest you'll be somewhere, spinning all the same, and i'll just be here, poring over paper, trying to figure the right pattern, to speak words language won't. i'll miss you, always.

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Feb 26, 2015

Feb 26, 2015 at 4:08 PM UTC

in a haze of morning hours, scrambling for paper, amidst regular intervals of tingling: days splintered by loveliness, sharp aches, clustering thoughts of blue snares. summer's decline. your eyes. tumult. but, what can or can't be done? seemingly everything. i just hide. second nature. paradise by weekend, far reaches before long. isolation held in firm grip. substitutions for the lonely: mud, rock, leaf, water. simplicity. and then, as clear as sunlight, another visage of your eyes, grand blue snares; a warm, glowing scar, i am full of glimmer and a recurrent dull ache. can't help it. don't stop. affections ran deep like trenches, swift like gutters, rained upon, forever. nameless breath sent to or from this greater scheme, the mechanics of my inner chest, sorrow poured out over the stars. all seemingly as distant. i miss you always. but, you, wild& capable, carrying everything with a grin, give no reason for lament. you, out there, behind doors or in thickets, thatching all skies with rivets of joy. and, i, under slow-beating sun, ain't seen to smile so much in forever. but all flying creatures fly. as misery did migrate, so too do fear and consistency, heartache and certainty. such is the path the world will always spin over. so, i write out new and old songs on rust-laden heartstrings. lay lips on nothing, typically. keep on breathing, singing, laughing and spinning, as the world does, knowing all the while that in the recesses of my chest you'll be somewhere, spinning all the same, and i'll just be here, poring over paper, trying to figure the right pattern, to speak words language won't. i'll miss you, always.

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I shouldn't face the wrath Should I apologise, For null offence Whom am I Should I beg for pardon Am not a human by *** Captives of our own identity By the rules of land we abide And cling to the terms We slither in servitude Yet we hail our master By the book we're hooked We try to stampede for a coup for deliverance But still I need an assurance To revive our significance By hook or crook Its a wild mammoth thought Moaning,thatching,fetching, ranching,soothing is our role Still we'll still like steel on steel

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Jul 22, 2017

Jul 22, 2017 at 1:47 PM UTC

I shouldn't face the wrath Should I apologise, For null offence Whom am I Should I beg for pardon Am not a human by *** Captives of our own identity By the rules of land we abide And cling to the terms We slither in servitude Yet we hail our master By the book we're hooked We try to stampede for a coup for deliverance But still I need an assurance To revive our significance By hook or crook Its a wild mammoth thought Moaning,thatching,fetching, ranching,soothing is our role Still we'll still like steel on steel

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Lower, lower, a little more to the right, right, so I work my way down ahead of the rain, laboring under the gaze of a robin overseer relaying your wanton desire in bossy birdsong. She keeps an eye out for worms while I mind the angle of the rake, ride grassy undulations, tines biting into your arching back.

0

May 1, 2017

May 1, 2017 at 8:26 AM UTC

Lower, lower, a little more to the right, right, so I work my way down ahead of the rain, laboring under the gaze of a robin overseer relaying your wanton desire in bossy birdsong. She keeps an eye out for worms while I mind the angle of the rake, ride grassy undulations, tines biting into your arching back.

Continue reading...