July 16, 2012
You must do this, ordered the telephone call.
I should really not, said the seventh century.
Wearing shorts and nothing more I went to the
hot towers of justice, approaching with
11 women on whom I saw something.
To dress appropriately I arrived early,
drowning in funds of time with advanced sartorial planners,
kicking myself out among fallen angels on a sopping Boulevard
where there was none of clothing or anything
so I returned to the towers and asked them.
Love like this is no Republican.
One is evidence enough, as I
better understand how the world spun so long.