PM

Twill pleases; its twin
shops, thin legged.
Let's bet, it's cotton, cots, beds,
full slips, and fountains, like mice,
manying.

In sundowns high reds
sleep on pins;
Clouds roll in dreamers, slacken heads,
fill ships, cap mountains, like rice,
manying.

My fits are quiet, unreal,
slim pickins.
Spend nights down, caught, bled.
Open lips, the herds entice,
anything