Post

Fern itch a wish,
as jacks and all,
like small flowers sunning,
slowly rise and fall.

Light, no, air, flies,
dark or long, blue fuel.
The lion rode it, schooled
his mane.

Uses, all fast
and clear. They ring my
hair and tell things
I heard;

They'd grass the counties
and, with soft foods,
free socks, land
such beauty.