If we can make sense, we can make dollars.

The young hung lung
and the two fro from
came about the middle class servants
dancing about the wiring hung
but missed about and held cloud
the clout that was about louts.
Shouts, the rooftops hear prangs
and, without rang rings that sings
and mingling midget beats heat
microphone cords to heaps
and leaps that, again, loudly praise.
How does the legs lain, the slain bane,
and from the wane the angle lanes
to straight arrows, hollow furrows
and bows that bro and sisters says,
“Miss you, miss you, miss you,” ways.
Ways so soft the loft the look to me.
The wookie-book that Russel wrote
says sexy ways to lead astray to bed.
Wah-wah-wah!
The mood mellows and still swells
in passing brooks and small howls.
Bowels: understood the mid-misty mystery
and the misting insisting boasting and twisting
took stings to the stands and brings
back the silver sand man’s lands.
Panda, broke.
Upward scary sounds of sassy sisters
that brown mellow yellow sound
from Donovan’s crowd crown and
about the plain way, say-say-say.
In shame about we hear the whey.
Plain-Jane guy, metro hold we was
in Kama Sutra scissors and
looped about, should shoulders shrowd
cow about while the eagle pouts?
Nope.