Title

It’s hustle to bustle beneath drainpipe sewers.
And nothing but nothing could trade steaks for their skewers.
My mind’s indecision comes couth in the mirror
but no one else knows what insanity incurs.
It’s too intrepid to dream
and too strange to differ.

Yet so goes the stripes of cloth,
dingy and dirged
through their penchant to saunter
both trite and disturbed.
As a combat zone winks at the world back at home
’til a drift of contrition goes weak at their nose.
Still, table teeth smile their pearly white bones
on a crowd of deplorables gagged with hormones.
‘Cause nothing but fewer could mean rats under molehills
built by antagony
droplets of steam
set by angles of brawn and brine
from angels of time after time
and the time after that time that speaks under dawns.
My insolence begs you for sure.
But crafts of the plagues go for dollars and purse.

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