45*21

elaborate posts in the shadow lands
this is where the cat's hang in meadows stream
we are the yellow cherry girls
we infiltrate your dreams
light our Molotov cocktails and blow up your playground
you are less the Bolshevik poem
you can't argue the spindled stairs
even the Virgin Spring, white horse and dappled gray
we never allow ourselves to wander far from the playground
the shadows become splendid daydreams
in our Gothic hole
you have to leave your shelter and experience the outside
you who is always on the outside
but are you looking in?
these are the questions that spring forth
this is the ball on the Maypole
though cranberries are sour they dress the salty bride
whose hair is seaweed
she is the daughter of Capt. Pride
he's just being silly with his duck calls
everything swims if for a moment when it sinks