Drimoct (poem)
Drimoct
It’s always argued on the basis of the extrous
Strouphes three or four times on the consciousness, then exits
The whole surrender into pestiour leads to this defaulting mood
I mean the yoyunk sort of pestiour, that comes from lack of roots
Then the smart ones hustle in, and it’s all bunkita, bunkita
And the naysayer in the group is bound to throw bituna
With a mocktrind at the core that can’t be solved
Bituna, what I’m saying, also segatif, a snob’s game
As you know…and who can listen while they fogatise and agotise?
What the times call for, is a simple pelcrot
Not a platitude, but, you understand…the clopert sort
A pithy summing up everyone recognizes qosse
We should crevlog as many of these as seem worth keeping
But, don’t bother with the latest motrick
I mean, drimoct, drimoct, or do you think?
Unboat, then, be on board or don’t
Drimoct
Like Hell
The Cook (part three)
(2018, Stephanie Foster)