Poésie still kneads morals.
Authors, old timers, freely consume their own slapstick
when there’s a conceptual contingency to max, along
with requisite ethical structure to examine one’s taste level.

Now you know what to expect.

You can’t put limits on free-lance exuberant leisure
within a theoretical commune of vengeance..
Smart money on the one stiff up against the writing board.
The staff on ethics sit this out, blood-soaked inside, shaking.

O sure.