The Linden Branches Soared!


I'll be fine, tea-bot pasty cakes,
just cue me if I die zowwying,
harshness exceeding cogs ingrained under
the Hycamore Tree lotion.


I'm just a cow humming Yusuf
Islam tunes at warp speed,
scythe ready to cart out what's left
of the batwing tongue.


If there's a gods, I want 'em.
And if there's a dishwashers
I'll squeegee 'em and drag
the eggs down to Libya


over someone's dead body.
Don't doubt me, Bowcup - it's
midday and already my paddy
mugwumps are giddying up.