O

Acht! Acht! My God!
My yacht is in the sod!
It's odd to be a god!
It's good to be so odd,
But I'll get even!

Acht! Acht! My God!
My clone is in the pod!
I'll teach it yacht jihad,
a bindu is painted over my
doorway in the blood
of the cod.

Acht! Acht! My God!
I've shot another wad!
My odd wad's on the sod
along with my yacht
and a dead cod! How odd
that I have nought, how
Nazi that the nasty
asp is ruling still, still
ruling this cantakerous
decanting of canters,
this canker of wankers
in the carmine ill
of dusk, pigs!
With tusks!
How Odd!
I'll roast it!
With Figs!
With Gigues!
With Figures
sans Lids!
God's ideas
are teeming!
Like MULES!
With TOO
MNAY RLESU!
NOT! OR NEVER!

my head gets
severe
but on top
there are levers

"gear"

the generative ear
must hear this sort of thing
everyware
Ev-vril-war

shhh!

I've seen them,
faceless songs of milk

Etidorphamines!