Do you beat your meat under the sheet to circulate heat to your feet while the sleet falling in the street is bending the wheat that is meant for the fleet who are trying to beat their brother's defeat back into it's seat but there's not enough meat to make the boy eat so he kicks up a treat to hang on a cleat as he walks on not cheating, avoiding the incessant bleating and rolling on meeting the rest of the world, freak flag fully unfurled, the wound-up un-curled, going straight for the all the loose truth that can't be bound with the Bull Moose, Know-Nothings piping their foul air, still rectangular, brother, is too square, and beware the frantic urges, official purges, commercial mergers, I'm getting turgid, but not too morbid about the reasons for the devolving orbit around around the words for reality and truth which are running from spooks, and I don't mean the brothers, and it can't be the others, for sure we have known, like a cold wind it has blown, and now we must stand up and count, tell the haters and laters "Get OUT!" we're a country of fairness. And and its very core, the very base of everything is that we all came herfor was to be left the fuck alone, if that's all we really want. And everyone knows that.