Me and my lonesome, usually collectively,
In this era of solitude, singing at crickets,
Spouting off if facing unsavory hedgehogs,
Can’t yet dictate the direction of small birds.
We smile away gawking folk, all foodles, plus
Never lose over company, collected wonders,
Or spokespersons gnawing midnight blue twigs,
Leaking sedimentary taconite from solar plexus.
Curing our classmates of snags brings bigger,
Fulminant obstacles, unless we remain calm.
Certain captains, nearly always abandon ship,
‘ner set sail to our rudimentarily learnt findings.
In all world languages, to us, “routing” means
Getting passed over by confused porcupines,
Wealthy entrepreneurs, also fosterlings. So,
We’re known as vulnerable to pokey things.
Consider that diurnal, also nocturnal, journeying,
Covers essential acreage several times a span.
What’s more, playing out alternatives equals
Quickly ditching nonexistent familial routines,
Along the conical side of most dormant volcanos,
Vowing to break away from mercenaries’ results
In dead cells, layered cities, and great gobs of pain.
Hence we try to release concern with detritus.
