A
termagant wench foe
With
a velvet skin below
Jolted
down the jalopy
Moving
through the rays so sloppy.
Beamed
from a dazzling beauty
Strewed
along lonely and dewy
Counting
with his fingers the paws
‘which
forbade the laws.
Wondering
why procrustean failed
Like
woods which under the fire laid
Dreaming
of worlds of mind existence
With
fortunes of non-precise
And
he goes home thinking about the radicals
Strolling
and waiting the proposed practical’s
When
the radicals will proclaim procrustean
For
all to bend to it and lean.
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