Do not lure me into Zephyr winds

With tales of pure and past due kin

And stall my frail but raspberry tongue

from singing praise to whom the fat lady sung

Slowly will the sheltered life fade

from a hawk-like site

and schizophrenic brigade

Unfit passions set aside

in line of a doughboy’s

fanciful backside

Let clandestine encounters fulfill the need

to spurt life upward

catching the therapist’s own seed

Prepare to capture all stories made

before delirium

falls galliantly upon the blade

In the corner awaits a spook

whose whispers in the ear

incites the brain with screams of nuke

So pen to pad

foretells a life once had

Arranged in a way

even strawberry seeds are bad