Plan B

I sit, think; catch a quick wink as the ship sinks. My instinct is to lip sync till the slip’s pink. Can’t win fights when my chin swipes reach only shin height. And when kin likes taking Schwinn bikes to my wind pipe. It’s useless. I’m an aloof spruce, I’m fruitless. The looseness of nooses is becoming a nuisance. Screw this. Hope has gone the way of the dodos. I pack my bindle full of beans and hop a train with the hobos.