You say you want to end the charlatan, yet

yours the standstill cruciform bleak daylight

saved evening, starkly

scapegoated. See, you say, sign

of the bold made prone. Glad there

the vanity at the Dandenong soak, your tight

grip, it is a secret during the Australian Open

commentary, which is pointless.

Sloth number in the lamb but an avid mind

before the end. Avid subject supine

our bascule. Snap my back. In the sedge gulags,

Captain Cook nod, Marcus Clarke wet,

rubicund like the infant

coast, spry not fey beyond gambling.

You would shoot it. Wheedlers in the elderly

club by the ancient pub.

I add that not all chance is wrong.

Do not let it, is the number. Variations:

I suck the bullets

useless. Poorer country and rabid distractions,

fey was always spry she-oak but duly noted

and our bascule supine.

Captain Cook drowned with gold galoshes.

Betray missing persons. Did any of us

survive sea-bound?