Classic Poem

I died in chance abandon, made the clearing
tough to take, or went to meet a bleat of
feigning belly crates, to fly by number to
render coil. By bait the trough is
ridden, hung tanks upon a top of
toil, or tender mute the silent, shrill
the shorn, and bear a coal to castle's
glare. Less 'parent than 'prehended
shakes time to bugger oil (the bellicosity out
(of). Sponge season, or fretful tongues with
claws.











Used by permission of the author.