The shining knocks,
the wayward clocks;
that tick and rock
their blushing tocks,
that forward relieve
the prime minister's peeves,
to ascertain
Pink Floyd's relief.

I'm surely sane
like a maddening tick
that grates at my back step;
running parallel
to my hips.

Why does no pathetic(er)
ever write poetry while intoxicated?

07/29/2016