perhaps it’s time to slam phones off hooks,
a ringer for a dime.
clickbait for a paired autistic charade.
Surfaced. For a rhyme.
you lead us over false dawns and big foot sighted
off lake inverness and melancholy teats fueled
by beer filled dirges, booze fest Octobers
where you never rest your lungs even as we smoked
and splined and rained and drank
raw fuel till our gulls burst with the pleasure of it all.
all you would say was happy!
Happy!
Happy!
till we all were wretched, our new slave fest
a prisoner, to your rhyme
