Poetry of Issue 9: In the Realm of Abundance

What’s the matterhorn, dewy?

Cliff’s got you down, angle-

Ward, seems like or severing –

Want a pick-me-up palimpshade?

I gi’ ya kindly, fer ample sooth.

Garish isn’t swimmin’ in these parts.

Arrant iron is singlier.

Hosen buckle chamfered

Keeps limbs from clammin’, cold-

Beakered these climbs’ll clutch,

Jackallight skirling in grame,

Chasm-hurtling yer sport, ywen.

Come now, Charley, no fan-livered

Front ever game claimed, nor

Snookered snarling grails, face

Cryin’ fright or foil, it figures.

You got kin, embroiders?

Cotton me, son, diamonds in till?

Cotton me, William Tell,

Cotton me, rather,

Palaver of orfish swell:

You got game, don’t fell.