The Art of Tetman Callis

pestilence, pustules you cause—
nah. (sit tight, rap sill.)
oh, i wedded it, lode caring hotly if i rob—
or, by harm done, nettled steed swears slanders,
coward to the dead.

tuneful cadger, exhaling, exhuming,
he starts it tough. oh, stay new. hot racing
pushes my rate. i—
i kid—
i kiddle little loser
(loser, right, yet the deed).

on royal purple pus should tie here an eye,
how ought not i vie i.

i axe.
he sob,
no, it’s a loss—
i albatross.

(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)