Hurly piglets, burly boys & girls churn up.

Make worldly raw disorder

with assaults on sense after senses fail,

slick as heels & waists in soily mud.

Nothing is still so move, run too.

Turn in the June heat & straw.

I once asked my glancing father,

why this done thing is.

Grunt & huff were duly issued.

A fey gesture to grandfather tilted.

Rites bent brows, made furtive staggers.

I was given, to understand.

He spilled by slipped mask & disc,

by rote mache performance,

all he knew alone:

This, the least peculiarity

of fathomlessly strange futures,

is only a moment to grit teeth.

Stay nimble,

OXO