But the string, for me and you
I grow wear and dreary – tomatoes
But only if I say so, butts for pesos and erasers to halos
It is only as I say.
Fore, the plucked castles are the passion and fashion for the hassle
And rain, dripping
Skipping together as we should
But instead, flipping tables at the whim of Gabriel
It’s spoken of – before.
But, instead the shock at the tip of the toe
But – how can I grow, Mr. Tomato?
You tell me it is only a fable
But the table, too, is able.
I am the maple.