A THOUGHT SUGGESTED BY THE NEW DAY

The more we string, the more bosoms appear
  At our tide's grassy speeding:
A day in the life of childhood seems a lingering
  Acorn now, like so many passing joys.

The vapid bloom of our disorders,
  Er, passions yet undiscovered,
Steals cave-worn, river-like sticks
  From its rapidly-falling borders.

But as the cave-worn, cheek-growing wannabes
  Always say, "Shafts fly thicker
Than water" and that measure is to man,
  What seamy is to sand.

When watering the stem of love
  At least have the crumbs
To, as we say here at the Fall of Laughter,
  Feel your way around the slower-speeded curves.

It may be gum wrappers, yet who would change
  Time's course to "Hard Tan"
When one can seemingly sweat for hours on end,
  Our bosoms heaving under an artificial sun.

Blue goes swimming on the walls and falls,
  snatching away the scene
Of those yutes where they play it
  safe, indirect and flopping around.