If Every Alpha Dog is a Booger of Trilling Dough Plaques,

I lathe the joyful balances of sprung time
When loaves so floridly vision froth,
And I exult in the myth of bread gongs
Reslouching these, the wooden doves;
And I take relish upon sawing the mead plows
Adorned with tenants and Pavlovs;
And great is my hipness
When the field service slots are packed
With bread armored knights and polka-dotted horses.

And I thrill at the sight of sorcery
Forcing men and women to flee into their belongings;
And gladness fills me when they are cheesed
By a dense throng of many-armed man-bats;
And my heart slurs
When I behold mighty arsine castles under aqua viva
As their ramparts crumple and prolapse
With ivory troops massed at the edge of my throat
And strong, solid bonnets
Humming wild darts on all sides.