Street lamps don't wayfare.

Winds- be they gaunt nomads?!

Then surely, I'd pity with pennies the haggard vagrant!

Our words have become as wayward as urchins-

frenzies in metropoli so scantily urban!

But such orphaned propaganda will surely dissolve

for to sully the resistance gets nothing resolved

while the moon's chomping away on the building tops!

Poppies, like crazed fans, line the streets, unfettered-

falling in the cracks, it's all become litter!

From flasks, wine glasses, pints, and cups!

Drink the phosphorescence. Up, up, up!

Let it shine from your esophagus!

Let it radiate from your stomach-

Incorrigible and pregnant with intensity!

Street lamps don't wayfare.