Handy in a fix I dash off
and join a legion of honor
divine of dishes served on spreads of bread best toasted
in a heat of passion locking
the jaws and ambient teeth
squirreling away better roots for the future.
Yet the filial rifle I was given jams
and again the walls are raging
with the threat of new cracks upcoming,
but there! those were not the remarks I was making.
The sands of tine clog my crank case,
anger rears its rumored beef,
what was said gets twisted,
and honor rolls over and plays dead.
Better I should have an oily complexion
to ward off a future so rank, given the weather;
I’d be busted for sure if my left boot knew
where my right boot was tromping.