O'er the Reeever and Thru Theee Wooods

upon a pitch black mound
a populist's son sits
twiddling his fingers,
licking his lips

orange moss creeps up
the laces bound tight
in more than one instance
on many a flat night

a tie bound loose
across the great bisection
of God's own image
of the Lord's loose perfection

a round town gal
a cream drunk dude
a smooth lace dream
a figure, a nude

a poem in the Japanese maple
that always looked like purple weed
a flouted banner
"I'm just trying to help you be a team player."
"That's all."