This was made for the generations,
Like the creamiest malt.
From the cherry nipping apparatus
Can you see the bugling brasses,
Prancing viola playing lasses,
Chimneyswept vesper flashes?
Is that really me? Could it be my fault?
To the ashes,
Topaz eyelashes.
Only diamonds of time
Well hope to exalt.
Smell is fell.
Ahh, nothing
and maybe a bit of soap.
The gearing vault.
An engine of a man
Ought never grind to total halt,
Until his ash in the pan
filters into my salt.
Harrison Gross, USA
The Social Poet 