The sky is raving and cut by swaths of cool and spinning stones.
Dark stars, bright stripes, and liquid athmosphere abounding.
Kicking a can dryly into the
Wet street, the shrouded vagabond was singing soft:
“Come now into the alleged court,
Hear the verdict uttered hence:
‘All of those who can’t afford,
Will live death of their own accord;'”
And singing low and leaping hence,
The bus was red with wasted sense.
The verdict soft, the sentence slow,
Before the bus their sure you’ll go.
Im just glad I don’t take the advice,
Of vagabonds during a deficit.