Suppose a sucker swayed in his conviction like grass in the wind. That a heart’s center had no magnetism to guide its morals. Only a natural trepidation that bent one’s back in the direction of the queen. Hard labor and a leaf that looked bad actually turning out good. Then a rose petal might stay in that stem a little longer if only the woodpecker’s cry was on softer bark. Oh daisy, oh doozy, I can’t even write anymore.