Ham can spawn mans’ amass,
that carnal snack makes man call “Damn!” as hands
grab at a tapped cask and a tall glass.
Mans’ hands can draw angst,
can spark spanks, can shank
pants, can smash hats.
A man’s’ hands can catch small stars at dawn,
as stars fall fast and far.
Mans’ flaws can attack all flags,
all camps, all land and grass.
Man’s hands can arc as far as Alabama,
can grab that as small as an ants arm.
Ham and man,
flanks and hands,
can stand tracks as hard as magma.
A fatal pack, ham and man,
carnal and brash,
lack a past that has craft.
Even she sees the wet nettle nests between the trees.
“Where be the nettles? We see trees, bees,
we feel the gentle breeze, yet the wet nettle nests err these eyes.”
Yet she sees. She sees them,
sees the nettles’ wet dew, she smells the secret smell.
She needs the levee’s edge, yet she heeds the pests’ peddle.
She feels tested.
“We need see the nettles. We keep secrets well.
We never tell. We beg, we weep!”
She feels wretched. She regrets her speech,
her sweet nettles seem breeched.
She tells them, “See the trees? Eyes west; then see wet nettles the best.”
She feels depressed, her cheeks red, her feet repressed.
“We see! These eyes see the wet nettles nests!”
She melts, she frets;
her nests seek revenge.
If I fill lists with singing tricks, will it fix things?
If I stick with sin, will I bring crisis?
Inhibit this: it sits in striking light,
it blinds with whitish fright.
I might fight, I might sit limp.
Instill this: I think in fits till I spit.
Fools woo boys who know not how to grow,
who do not know words of worth,
who do not own books.
Dumb junk sucks up sun.
Dumb stuff mucks up fun.
Dumb schmucks slurp rum,
lust untruthful C-cups.
Fun stuff lurks.
Fun schmucks lurch, punch drunk.