I'm an unhappy camper
full of camphor, and dis
tended bellies growing
larger ever day. As the
lodger who multiplied
and has since died,
but kept on moving.
Brain sandwich, extra
mayonnaise, salt and
pepper; diet soda. Fig-
hting the road, but then
walking it over.
Wrought metal coaster,
rusting; taught green socks,
andthe trusting elastic, calf
holding. I'm scared of the
history and holding on to it.
What laird, and whose self-right
eous fit fought over rain
dance, body-paint, tartan?
What movings have gone
from sincere to distain so
quickly? And whose culture
is lolloping sickly?
