The semi-vanguard is vanilla
coke in the ear before death.
Near what wreath of chic damp bone
idles plangent longing for the front.
Tail me you cowards. Garner dutifully
well-proportioned praise from your
unmended gardens. Like my whistle
willfully shrieks in my corridor.
Namely, to a fault, the door
leaps from its hinges and plunges
into bright bastard horror, taming
all haggard entreaties and stamping
the rusted dust dirigible.
Now look at ye mighty,
we absolve and dislodge,
we abscond and disinherit.
I have the one collision
that can assure our safety
in this pocket of rock.
Weep for me at the last exit.