It’s a clusterfcuk in a diving bell
or a game of quoits under the threshold of deceit
When the warden decides to vent his glory tubes
ignoring the inclement weather
ditching in the soup
playing fiddlesticks by the storm drain
measuring his trope
It’s a custard truck loaded with gay slate
terminating the coronal smudge as sticklebacks jam the booty radar
Loup Garou by the blacksheep pen
