The argument was always sound:
To turn, beneath your flimsy crown,
The contents of your skull around
And leave your sovereign on the mountain.
It’s freezing at the pert peaks upon us
And flooding where the water’s there beneath.
A boat to free and breathe a bed of fauna
And flora spread around the feet of fauns
And feigning all’s a faint of weighty charge:
That’s a charming way to starve.
When the sea gates rose, how late had you found
That the Pleistocene marine was letting you down?
When the ice gates closed, how deep was the ground
Where the all-terrain moraines were letting you down?
Do the feet hate ice skates breaking them in?
Would the limbs brave sea scapes with floaties and fins?
Will the wind and rain begin to change you now?
How I’m loathe to find you out.
But I’m calling back to state my case aloud,
All crashing light and sound:
I’ve kept a cache of clothes for scenting these hounds
To find and flush you out,
In case there’s any doubt.
Don’t go clearing your throat.
I swear there’s qeulquechose.
Don’t go. This aspen grove,
Though pale and thin and broke,
Prevails in prose:
If the skies are clear and old and too cold to snow
There’s a way to face the show
And a face in case you don’t.
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