June 4

Squirrel sir, I long not for your lyre
that two fingered flute
you appear to be playing
till you’re lured to a trunk
assured of attack from some slayer.
I long not for your games.

I’ve spun round trunks unsure
if the ruler of my heart,
slayer of demons and risque
fantasies, still twisted with me,
finding too late I’ve ruled
aside a solitary ruse.

Squirrel sir, in lieu of your lies
I will settle instead with the surer
slew of animals who live
on risers of calm, on rural
isles, australs and squires
who rue not a day, nor beast.

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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