High up there,
in wooden crocks
a nutter spucks
and sizzles twice.
Deep, deep down,
in muddy prucks
a spougle yawks
so cummertised.
We watch all days
and through the nights
them lurxing restless –
endlessly.
And us sit there
so lurxalised.
What hitherforth
sets flutoley.
Thus, mottles hard.
