Poetizer poetizer, makers hands
make me a cone of flowers if you can.
Squeeze the language for the juice of the rose.
Breeze and tangle with the gauche and the pose.
Cowboy conceptions restart the land.
Cows become assets, like words in those hands.
Over the ledge their ancestors went,
hugging the cliffside, heading for bent.
The model is broken and stoked like a tire,
shredded and leaking on playgrounds on fire.
Abrogation resolves in a progression of music.
Ruses, ruses, farcical muses make honors into honors.
So, school is the topic. That's a non-tropic trophy.
There are palms and there is grease. You know
what to do. Now gather your nonces, eat your
ponchos, and let the rain soak your socked feet.
Roman Ryan 