How do ya? The swing of my skirt catchya?
To know my kiss you must hum.
The roses that you swing me don't belong
in the hands of a married woman.
Dispose of them, join them with your other.
The dirt you brought with your body box
is dark, rich, and worm willed.
Knots of flower blown potato food
will grow sweet with your wound speak
after you plant and work and plant again.
Meet me on the boardwalk at the shop
where bicyles spin towards the moon.
Find me with a small child's box bag.
Offer to treat me to fries and ice cream.
Carry my bags and speak to me like I'm important.
From there the way will become fair and true.
