Silly, you were positioned only a few days ago,
of course not fully, but seriously, nobody is,
yeah, we still touched from our huge distance,
even if neither party decides to actually admit this.
You never left no matter the scene it’s caused,
dust hasn’t formed over your glass atop the bar yet,
along with that patient stool refusing occupancy,
in sublime counter reverence toward our antsy queen.
Hey, I ain’t giving up my unsung prominence as simply,
keep them drinks spilling while I recess in gleeful bubbles,
naked paintings bribe another generous volley of wet dreams,
couldn’t forecast any more from this writer’s cored fancy.
John hasn’t tired of sharing tales about your proud court,
streaks across his freshly purified windows reveal why,
gawking at smoking thick filaments eager to blow,
ears titillated with brighter promises aboard their fatal run.
Observe, a petite house pressed tight to its cardboard walls,
biding above our table exposing aroused dolls of fear,
minute clothes barely clad their much shorter extremities,
twisting in jest trying to signal your awaited reception.
We lean as a pyramid through our joined heat and chill,
pouring every kind of exotic spice forced into a bottle,
heads kneeling on this wooded plateau of fallen monarchs,
sighting points of driven heels reflected under a cocktail.
Sharwrong's Song 