How certainly upsetting,
the Rapunzels sighing their mirrors
into a lengthy stroke of withering violin strings,
and sleeping unnecessarily:
a deliverance of prodigious orchestral cellos
murmuring a low, low, low
dream of society.

Meetings by the Chocolate Factory
in the mystery red of sweet sun,
dipping into the dark syrup of earth
so that we can only dream of the rockiest of a
cherry chocolate surrounding Vesper,
hiding our guilty bellies
in the half-off racks, the book shelf, and the theatre door:
These all go amiss in plagues of sopor,
the frosted window I cannot lick,
plummed lips in the rapture of appled caramel,
and the primping for selectivity -- depressing, certainly.