Tripped up, forgotten, begotten all plumes for a way into a sinister land of lagoons, to be placed in preparedness, caustic and choosing no hope for a handgun–peace is our rule. And laughter is switched by a birth of insanity playing about a version of Sean Hannity. Plucked and bruised is my thoughtfulness, plain. You are worshiped by royalty. It’s strange now to blame anyone with a wistful sigh. You are pekid and wild. You are danger personified. You’re cryptic and smile now. Now with a passion. Now with a stand. And even if patterns depict your sad sack, there is no reason falling beside yourself couldn’t be packed with a warming of temperatures, global and then some. Years could fly by and you’re not wrong to have said that humanity’s sinking and dodging itself when its happiness is derived from a feeling you get when you gaze at the shelves in your corner store, wishing that the prices had gone down since the last time you visited. You glance into your billfold and find nothing there, so you escape from the aisles to grab some fresh air. And even as oxygen pierces your lungs, you are hoped for a cigarette, but you haven’t the money. To reiterate backward, you’re plain and undone but a stranger looks past you and asks if you’re having fun. But you’re not having fun, ’cause fun costs too much. So you look at the news of the day and get worried– worried of what is a line much too dear: You worry about everything, and it’s worse with the years.