The mores of this time are all askew.
One hand smites the face whose brain directs it;
one hand waves always at the plane that flew
away – bearing girl and dreams – rejects it:
What does this mean? Well, there are no morals
because their abundance means we lost them
like you lost her – her lips red like corals
while yours are wrecked, teeth like jetsam, flotsam:
What does this mean? Well, just give up the game
and withdraw yourself to Northern Cali
and plant a seed, and watch it grow in shame
because you do not grow, you just dally:
The mores of this place are like a shoe.
Wear them too long and get lost in doo-doo.

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