Here, velvet, take the left of center
kilo-metric
equivalent of the ways of your
heartfelt commies
back in the 'other' jazz age.
Humming 'murica the beautiful
--with all those space-eous skies/
eggplant colored mountains scraping
up all those space-eous skies--
you got red-blood on your
lips tracing your lips
across my lips &
i've got blue-blood on your
lips tracing my lips
across your lips;
white teeth like a
wreath made with cheats
and less than three-ing your
romantick haiku.
What it do, babby (-meant to be-) boo
i'm just measuring you
& your patriotic to-dos.
"Thank the God for the President and the
President for the God.
Ahmen!"
-- Gesundheit.
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