Streets

Filtered, frequent docile drips
packed and placed along my hips
wait anxiously my eager lips
each cup resembling furry mitts

It tastes like ass but still I drink
and I cannot just sit and think
yes that, yes this, yes that one too,
it's sticky messed-up hyper gue

but generous in its regard
for tranquil trances beats a bar,
paddling, shuffling, scenting, snipe,
frosted leg work tangents night

time caught within its bolder hues,
caressed and crested bebop blues,
that's a lion, phew, a clue
sprinting steamy pungent fumes

which smell quite nice from time to time
a catered well-wished splintered clime
splayed and seasoned ripe with thyme
purchased nourished flourish fine

lee lounging Mrs. Montague,
your cup's half-full plus one times two,
and all day long I sit and brew
and steep their rambling broadcasts through.