while those appropriate, are blessed,
leaving an unclean palm to cerise this throat,
blue mornings, in ribbons of pink sunset.
Aren't they're helpless too, when running down?
Our pride, ego of a semi dead clown;
an efficacious whim, to bury within -
Hello, Aunt Sally, did you stop listenin'?
Their tone isn't resilient, it couldn't be - oh not tonight,
for wicked isn't an opinion,
its certainly a sense, of humor at best,
or the usual mule - a dissenting minion.
They claim our 'coterie', if I may be allowed,
is vacuous, at best cretinous,
but the plate's are thin, content within,
as the ichor quietly pales - avers and diminishes.
We were bits, and shall stay wisps,
confined to a floor of broken glass;
while the thick shall win, make merry the weekend,
and we shall crumble, revering their sentiment.
Nor to wish they'd railroad,
funnily, neither do we soak in peace.
Come ballot day, a tissue inside might die a week,
and when they revel, this dismal,
we'll concede.
