The stars have aligned. Years pass and souls burn. Beetles don’t like people! No, no. No, no, no, no.
Grubbing grabbers be feet of fun, fasten onto Ohh, shiny, Black trees and thistles, Purple foxglove or Skulls are happy. Scribbling you down, hands giving away.
Blood in the mist? A very fine carpet sir, has prick, prick, prickles. Is short like the others. Two. Then one … then none.
Worms in your head? A kettle, in a kettle is where they wiggle. Wiggle-wiggle-wiggle-wiggle! A ring surrounding everything. In the weeds. With no hat. Oh! Now then! Look! Skip and dance! Skip and dance! Pebbles in the lake! Moths at sunset!
Fish leather. I can smell the sun! What’s in your blood?