Death is another oil change
hatched in my day's way.
Stupid death and stupid dying.
Who made it anyway?

The old hen pecking God? Well, I'll cock and sock his nose, make him roost the golden egg chooking as I hearsing go.

For from the shells I sell to L-OC-als I'll build feather couping waves, Buy up Death's garage and scythe, chicken farming from the grave.

Emily speaks of seeds
like dust
in the Jersey snow-

Riding through the poem that will grow them home-

Braking- goes the light in- disconnecting tags followed- blind you have arrived, for blind already knows.

The urlanders speak
of man turned brill
who goes by the name
of Walt MaGill.

They say he's mad, that he spits salt dement, all night blue to waterclock chant.

And that if you go by the babbling cave and listen you'll hear him foaming depraved.

But don't listen too close the urlanders warn, for the bulbous song can turn you sideways.

If I ruled all the world,
I'd say that you were a fool,
if you bought a ruler,
for cheap rulers rule.
Go find a ruler in the basement,
I'd decry-and-cree,
or do as I and use the
"Maryland Commercial Driver's License Manual"
that Brian left at my house
completely free of  fees.