Gulls of inglennook. 

I grew a twisted stick that would 

make you run a smile that’s 

Eight miles into this country side 

where gentleman wade the rushes 

And woad be tide the creationist

descreation of hushed crickets 

That often ride bobbin wheels

For the camera churping 

those that Often Lose 

there minds entwined 

in Mother goose rhymes 

Wrapping gloved knuckles 

on rhythms and Hymns 

with cross road Devils toungues

Bathing feet to wash the rings 

witches Daubed in nesting 

Places only the Gulls of inglenook 

Can read if you hesitate 

You get what you conceived 

That climb you may fall 

Once in a while Dreaming 

of walking on water.

Drunk on the twisted vine 

Of to be specific poison 

Is rouge and the Greek city 

Of Thebes were torched 

To reclaim stones created

Where the only tame horse 

once Turn mills on peaks.