Stake the cross, flying needle
patches those office-grey slacks

Called the seamstress, fled his roost
he traded clothes to make tracks

While she stitched up pants to fill
a gap, always coming back


Fast letters and grounded flight
and problems flee open road

Drunkards drowning in tankards
but he skips pebbles to next post

Fleeting will of the flounder
never longing the same home


Strap the saddle, the drum stick
that beats the buffeted hooves

Here as he rides, the water
dies, gobbled by a spring bloom

Forfeiting life for potence
and you crows cry all too soon

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