The masquerade takes on new life.
Our dream is rife with ripeness.
Sooner or later (preferably sooner),
all thermometers will pop
and the crystal shock will shimmy.
Nobody calls ’em jimmies in these parts.
We call ’em creeps.
If you forget how to sleepwalk,
try squawking into a letterbox.
But please, please don’t disappear
into sheer vernacular hilarity.
I haven’t got a headache left,
and my heart is hefty,
hefty with the heat of hankerings and mystery.
Your apples don’t blister me
the way you intend.
Contend with that for a spell,
and you’ll quip like a queen.