Third Point One

Call me macho man and it is coy. Sacred Phil, it is I

   you strum. Why so? I sign it, angrily: Nemus.

First, I'm ingracious or God, pure of font and serving

   Italians for a Greek orgy with a ferret chorus.

Decide who parrots songs you had in Anthro.

   Who is the childish ingrate? Why must you be Bis this water?

To you, a beer in Phoenix is a quick come on to die in the army!

   We have exactly: pumice vs. eating.

Give me fame. The land is lewd and sublime and a me

   not a coronation. Music triumphs a kiss

and I come in. Dogs are rude to me. You tan your love,

   write or tell me your basic route has

frustrated the missis. You have certainly

   not detoured me through music.  The dog laps at you.

You laud the many in Rome, Annalisa added,

   which is fine with the Imperial Bacteria whose future cannot

but quote legal pace.  Whose opus is "Sleeping in El Monte"?

   The toolkit intact, Page and I are You and I.

Molly and Peg aside, our date was certainly poetic.

   Not to face it, to capitulate during my coronation,

at my high school, you ow you and I some quaaludes and Dexatrim in Ida's turbin

   After I die, duplicate the finer redder-necked honers.

After I die, everyone will finally get my aura and your tusks

   My, we are exquisite when our name is in gold

No kiss equals the pulse of big no secret arses,

   and fluid hymens come in us to be European

The idea...um...is simeon. The IOU is on parole in Sacramento

   Hector, do you camp on your masculine roots?

And die fearing Helen's name and Martha's mantra and nuclear arms?

   And quail come for my ninth soiree no set humidity.

This exquisite soiree forested nothing, Ilion, and you

   try a bis in the new Otay mine, God's capitol.

Your neck is not our house, mention this to Homer

   Poster it 8 times, assume the crest is sensitive to puss

and I enter the soiree a bit loud.  No Roman poets

   post sinewier augurs or refer to themselves as God.

I don't contemplate the laps I indicate. I saw a sepulchral

   Proustism.  It is like me and you to bat after God.

To poem, Fourth

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