"You have to comb the infield to do it,"
that's what the colonizer told the men;
What a strange position, from which I sit!
I maintain the interests of the oxen:
Fields, segadors, nationhoods under lights,
with flies wafting on high and dreams on low;
the courts are shambles, and the laws are fights
to hold the notions of fealty on show:
"Our clientèle is so very different –
the volk who hang around here is druggies;
they don't jive and mix-and-match / complement
our logistics with owning people free":
If you combine to keep volk separate,
They'll want to go to Europe, lie prostrate.
urbansonnets 