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The Twelve Carat Cat caught 
the tier for thumbeliner,
But thought it naught a fought, frayed trot,
with lean and gaunt composure.
With one quick tail and kiss 
and twist of tongue,
a lick of lids, undone.

The liquor'd've did less than
more-that-than-this.
Which parlor played-out the blast 
over-speaker?
Karaokiedokie then, and then the second shot never heard neither.
Uhnghil, and until not of 
Sayni'l they'd heard
(for serpentine weak joints),
for forty week's word, and
Tactlessly scarring past the greyhound
came forty-four of the streetlights
in their wizardry hats
and shoe-polished eyes,
containers of thoughts left to 
dole-out o'the armpit.

Knit calendars together for the time when they held thin,
the line past the arboretum.
Give out little houses, "A white one! A white one!",
lay-out the iron to drown-out
orchestral chants
they thought once fought in standing chance.
The dancers and the steppers
shot lances out to pierce the curtain,
to peer at the lousts.
Uncertainly now:

Whence came the third shot?
No good story's disturbed
without jokes told in thirds.

Knock Knock

Westward grazing the hides of the cows.

Who's there?

Wait not for me, 
when finding knot becomes me.
Not rope fraught with't, but 
frayed plots drag us over.

"Say 'Knock' again, I dare you!"

-don't disappoint me with youthless,
ruth-out the foolish!-
Don't dissuade the third shot...

He spoke over tributaries 
from steeple balcony
to drown-out in-earshot.

A young child is drowning.