This knowing weed

Come here heather sleep under
  old plants know nothing but
the lightning here to catch you up
   on a weak gold fire up wheat
where not but cooked pie crust wells 
   by and by don't these people 
so cook up and mince singing of
   bon-hats and no foreign tongue
that one tune growing its spots
   this river its mouth soaks all
hopping its chalked stilts flying by
   washing these people dry.
Flying by a few sires bent proper
   and go to there, to sleep under there
over their milking cows each bull
   where one plot lends out two where
to draw up every gallon of hulking maul
   a pig's babe learns on its belly
spawn from that mouth, and that bulk
   on its put-upon lifelong skulk. 

~ by Jeremy on January 1, 2011.

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