Is he queuing with low leg-ends?
Married Commies, in-ground Lords,
men tend to queue in all universes.
Queue so we can’t miss anymore.
historians are wrong,
they roll on ancient romances
chanting “no vote”.
Now there are Commies amongst the trees
with lapels, colouring pain,
showing all and none of the battle.
It lessens to the north
where there are no dollars.
All bastards eat Commies,
join and say “no queuing”.
In long histories they’ll make amends.
Bruised infants of the corridor tumble,
these souls tumble.
It’s a surly ill-fated joy and the roses dance.
Achievers sing Commy tunes,
ring the room.
All regret the music.
The little valley with truth and lilies,
vilest violets, turns the view
to violent dancing gently.
The line has changed
and lost itself many times before