my room is in thoughtful disarray
my game is on the scatters, mid-air
I tilt fluid crystal throttle at the helm of the flintrock
no tricks involved, relatively whispering
Let us look at these shards about, of the fortress I held in winter
with lunacy, short reach and tall sheets, pounce of the springtime soon retreat the novice builders ‘O fort of couch cushions crew go giddily
return in a frenzy to feast with better thieves.