Lyrics of the Trouvères

Demain! Not much of a glass.

So-called legerdemain padded by you know who

in the direction of Argentina: a #3 pencil implacable

as a first aid kit. War or pine trees.

Thus nothing is spotted with Futurism

and hillsides, the idiom we skulk in

in honor of which differential diagnoses

take a nap in November worrisomeness.

Reliquary dreams. Frangipani!

If you leave without controlled faddishness,

shoulder to shoulder like butter, the

truculence is on the stargazer side.

What godsend fiddles with sadness. Careful

about cheekbones, songs including the Atlantic.