Fountain Uncouth

Happiness is as exuberance does
Or some approximation thereof
I see, there are mistakes at the heart
Of joy's passive activities

I and thou; me and how; 
Courtesy imperfection 
Makes figurative confections
Whose knowing won't insist

Wanting, it's a state of philocaustic respiration
Sentenced to case the place
And rob one self of its regard
In favor of stolen renewal

That's thoughtful, of you it may not sing
Indirect action at a fissure
That's volcanic spume, bitter hume
Soil, though, that's sprung stuff

Couldn't green newts make the day
As bright as they seem 
In impossibility's cloak
Worn out like a soft pair of shoes

Bring mistakenness to somewhat set tables
To dine, feast, and semi-ritual
Culture resists definitions
And measurable electrical volts

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