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