Tired of trying to yank the chains of his girl,
he yells for yonder mistakes.
“Triumph!” he cries.
She is gone.
With the foolish excuses the world has been making, and yet he is crying
triumph to the dear sour pus.
“I am all this barking demand.”
Then cries, “Triumph little buzzing bee!
Step down from your sting and lay locked lips.
Triumph inconsolable bird!
Press your beak to the cloudy sky and feel that hand grop one time.
Triumph fascist bear!
Eat the towing guns, sing the day long.
Surrender your aching heads to the thunderous Irish tumbles.
Hand the broken sleeves to the eyeless dog, freeing the attitudes of dark rituals.”
She may roam the island, with contemplations of seniority.
Though his brutal movements of speech may contunue to contain flings.
She knows how to break her chains and flake the current sunken salt.
And if so, then why does she not find the burden of her dreams?
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