Finding a stinging sense to motivate.
Spit my juice on the ground.
Walk with a jump, a limp
-the gait of a rabbit-
foxes a chasing,
making snide terse sound.
What is with the wind
-blows the same grows stale-
nothing too everything stinks
with no opposed habit.
See the nymphs playing,
horning the satyrs,
booming they noise,
aspiring will be noticed,
jerk and wine sink into abyss when it matters.
Wind origin same — blows down highest mount
rising smiles with dirty bile,
legs of the lotus.
Searching pixies play their pump,
erotic sweat break eyes asunder dreaming bliss in pain,
thousand dots provide facade;
What is to dump?
Misdirected wind about
-blows stench from every corner-
unsettled current howling, snaking, drizzling blind,
the same.
