Yet the poetry, of the silken sky, as it glides by on TV sponsored railways, of soap suds, down by the river, fleshing in, tobacco, too, and beer, as if “ring around the collar” is the problem of the day,
And the housewife, opening a can of spam, for the dejeunier,
There with the black Africaner, up from Africa, as a banner,
Her blouse, an open morning sun, a bath robe, in her leisure, the worker comes on in, with his little work to do, a battle to be planned, as dawn, the glistening sun splendor on, as a boob, with milk to bait a mammal,
A sloop de loop, a gaga go google to find a poodle noir, French Parisian mare, of google noir delight, is the sun, about everyone,
She’s come undone.
Spam of Human Affection 
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