Our Houses

A fool and his house are never parted.

Ok, here we go, gin in hand,
Straight into the art of darkness.
(Heart my eye. There's nothing true
About a pump besides the fact
It pumps. When it's not broken.)
Follow me? I'm almost beyond
Caring anymore if you do.
What happens to the sweet child
In the wheelchair when the others
Grow into their constructed
Cruelty and leave? Write an essay,
Right a wrong. Melange adultere
De tout, you. I was a homely soul
In an unspeakably handsome frame.