Man, melt your mouth on high.
Igniting a gash on filament
amenable mandible administers
trite confessions of confectionary trout.
Two sugars, I placed them on your tongue
and you let it happen
so carefully as that I had none.
At the impromptu rhythm
of dinner in place of a gun,
talk about burning your victims,
succumbing them to mud.
I interjected, got rejected,
and became ejected.
The last mine to facilitate the needs
of the population
is a joke too laid back
to recognize the crime it commits.