Give me my money back, this tin
is misshapen.
Don't make a fuss, your boughs are
numbered.
Mine aren't, waiting's my only chance
for a flight out of here.
Newton forgot the Pine,
And I can't be blamed for it.
.
Chewy like mild wombat afternoons,
Chewy, like tinned carelessness,
slacker.
Twenty roots criss-cross on yellow.
Boughs of sweet nothings
Tangled in a sour hug.
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