Modified Cliché

Bring it up!
Keep qualms,
bury John.
Saturday night
flights are
where the party's
matte blue
carpet.
Chains of
seasoning
light the 
spires
burning down
the louse(s);
fine-toothed
roam, built in a
weak moment
by two wolves
huffing and stuffing
to mow the mouse
down; I don't like
snacks either.
Ask me no suggestions
and I will fell trees
in style: points for
imperfection, window
messing up, tainting the
town shed with
moss growing on
folding bones.