When the rose of August,
hot and humid, weathers
every storm, clouds of dust
nevertheless spin just
the right amount, feathers
hover until a gust
engulfs a farm, then rust
reaches the sky, tethers
on the ground dance with dust,
simply nothing then, thrust
endlessly to nethers,
of course, respects August,
for while, in God we trust
allows get-togethers,
under the ancient dust
granted by law, our lust
unleashes whips, leathers,
stallions and mares from dust
to eclipse in August.
No comments:
Post a Comment