Under Sods moon, and the cradle daunt dwell in it’s Kingship.

A mighty deed will all sway, and heed the soldier,

A Sacrifice for us, For All of us.

The motion of machine gun fire on Flaunders field,

And the rook penciled foot barking Mechano,

Decisive to mean loud quip,

On Saunders field.

Time, Timed , Everywhere, to be here once yet chance then the next place, dipped in motion. Similar village of our common history

To be in one place, then all place only be yours,

To meld diversity, a groot upswing of our greatest gravity-

That of our own home. “I cannot do without going home”.

As Altern bent Chidwell and truly skilled

Thinly naked but Erastafarian God Ja summoned Trist

And might pen to dwell on the mind always

Who knows which way is up; from atoms it is known, that up is to be at home

Alt ego and never to be differential to soggies

And those who strop, On Churlish deviant @

One minute Yes, then no, sometimes pre-towed with a no

To be told on your foot, on the phantom unannounced naughty step,

that you are powerless, a deadly drum but what a mean Drumbeat,

Then you discover that they cannot and that to move their stall to another point would be impossible

But dweller on the threshold. To be one. But askance and the long walk to oblivion

Paradoxically it’s at people’s thoughts; discerning But

Their gossip.

And the great sump to all be one,

Just believe this man, a sinner yes- but a great sinner you perchance esteem

In order to have a chance, you must mode your indulgence and the matter of time becomes

Transposed and absorbed to pass muster

Time too little* no one knows and indeed no balance with this for holy people & a 1D thick, as the Mesmer\

Measure typology, meant stably to secure our common good

All coping and on treacle soup.