Ringing poets throught the storm,
is there a pigeon rightly grown?
Blabbing, throbbing, flaffling, trone,
will you commit yourself to norm?
The form is but a content’s truce,
allowing fulls and kings the rule,
the middle average fights abuse,
of bureaucrats condemning blues.
Yet shoes, the shoes should judge,
be judged by shoeman’s mighty sword,
the needle trudes the skin and sole,
come home my loving lovely clown.
Bazzinga says the geniot savant,
the squibbling dancing roman’s quilt,
whatever comes of wiseman’s mouth,
cannot and will not rot in trunks.
The ant is rid of brains of weight,
yet anthouse shows us works of art,
its concerts run in symphonies,
intelligence leaves fingerprints.
Whoever lays all eggs to ints,
surprised you will be oft,
because of all the mights,
just love creates our lives.