What's the word -
that squeeky thing
that rocks the cradle
to the brim?

Is it the windy buddy May
that makes my sadness run astray?
Is it the homeless on the station
that bring on miscommunication?

Not the bums and not the glory,
but the bloody hunky-dory
period of women's pains
rocks the cradle, sways the sanes

into the great persisting
plague
that stopped the hand
of R. Montegue.

yoyoba