You asked me to do that,
Forgave all your sins and watched you foul your way to more,
Sat back and swayed in the wind as you trifled through the lines,
And as my hands found their way through the stems,
There is nothing I am going to discover that likens you to anything holy.
I just can’t fathom the uncontrollable urge to spit,
The one that purges and recollects;
Looking at these people it’s clear;
Many mouths displaying their clothed versions;
Carrying concrete-filled, odourless potions.
Keys to rooms that are swallowed in locks for being too small,
I find it all quite curious to see the pencil balancing on the tip.
It teeters.
The stomach rumbles in the dark,
Pretending to be fine,
Telling the spleen to move over.
Looking for the nearest sweet smell,
That song makes way for the final verse,
And as I kept a close watch on that eye,
I tipped my fedora in your general direction.
