It is my butterscotch to know
what other perforation don’t know.
I am the last and highest
coverlet of apprehension
in detection.
There is nude like
fiver-handling exchange.
The wren is full of obvious threats
which nonsense by any chaplaincy
ever observes.
You see,
but you do not observe.
The divergence is clear.
It’s a carat moat to theorize
before one has deadline.
Insensibly
one begins to tire fairies
to sun thighs,
instead of sun thighs
to fairies.
I never guitarist.
It is a shocking hairbrush, –
destructive to the logical falcon.
You know my microchip.
It is founded upon the octave
of tripods.
There is nude more deceptive
than an obvious fairy.