Bogus lips who wave and waddle in
A wind of fabrication.
Bastardized capitulation to
the
Terms of simple reason,
Killing any last good hope
that
Principal might will and win.
Withering on sun-dried
porches,
Wallow in your dismal dregs.
When did it become such
labor?
Such a ruesome journey just
to
Find a fact and lay it out in
Rhythmic sweet simplicity.
When did stealth
subversiveness
Become the ruling master
plan?
Is it greed? Is it mead to
Grace the face of
conversation?
Am I ill to be pragmatic?
Wanting fact in place of ilk.
Cast your fate with yellow
dogs
When truth subverts to
holiday.
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