This is the Purple Season.
There’s 18 tunes in my head,
And when I felt blu
And got rhythm within my sneakers
That spoke of spanish caravans,
I felt humbled to know that Castles Made of Sand,
No long-er fit the bill, and I had to adhere to revelation
“I ate skittle for dinner.” has been my sound of prose
And b-rounds of b-flat on g major
A to E on the Viola sound-system
—was simply no reason for me,
To aid addition at.
I wanted to be easy, breezy, free,
Traveling,
Light,
With white trousers on,
And I hate Labor Day Parties.
—
—
“And you, call me. Lazy.”
A Fascismile.
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