Tell it like it ain't.
The west won a flummox mold dream,
wrested it from hallow fold reams
unwritten books divided by zero
to prove the impossible odds.
Hold up, Mr. Breton,
your surreal fights to the life
blighted Montmartre with pickled
sargasso cubes shattered for fun and protest.
Fear is the name of my horse.
He bucks pretty hard,
throws dollar snakes at my eyes
and rolls in the shamebolic mud.
I'm still on the back, prepared for death.
Preparation is the name of my tombstone;
it's actually a stump
the giving tree's previous foundation
whose boards made up my peace.
Roman Ryan 