Circles and lights, they circle the turnpike
when it's well past the night and haze is free,
and hay isn't free – you pay with your pike
or it scorches your throat on-you-we:
That was a joke. Don't take it for scripture,
though it's written in cursive; discursive
flows regurgitative, tossing back pure
and utter clichés; no reimbursive
gestures thrown at congenial jesters who're
deluded by language into loving
all men, all things, every figment moving
under this patchwork of shredder manure:
So, please have you your way, burgher Kings
and Queens or queans (if you know what that means).
urbansonnets 