Changes in Heaven
A stun for the sun befound
Our donut brethren had no upkeep
But were here to land by Thursday
So it was inter-locution
And dying by the lakehouse-
My honest beekeeper
Was smitten with the ordinary
And knew to recuse
Who could accept the delivery?
It was genius but on time
To knock at the shawl
And give everyone a wise hurt
It was a blast
And we were in Hampton
But accepting that early death
Was not in time with myth
Expressly raining positivity
For dragging my anchor to the shore
It was a Rolls Royce
And I covered it in paint
And danced beyond redemption
For the point I made to my father
It was the day of a hottened planet
So that we staved off every nazi
-And we had every right
There was a child for every proper
Who blew away the car
I saw poverty in a toilet
And was recused for sudden swearing
And Ryan Island
-Was Angela’s
So that payphone would last til the eighties
But in President’s terms,
It would take six times the voltage
Just to be by the ferry
And hurried off to Jeff and Mulroon
To the village of Standing Bay
Why Perry,
You’re not honest with those CIA spies
So there was a prayer for the forest
In jeans and still not alone
The event of cavalier pretenders
-Like Hosni Mubarak et. al
Were lost to the speaking epithet
And seen to lay by our Canada
I was a leftist
And a little girl
And hanging on,
I sat by my father
To that pretend myth,
Which was what is my name,
I am yours, and I dearly dream
A homeblood, they supposed
For thinking of apples and Peter and why, Providence Ontario
So that irving would surrender all of that worry
To the landing
To Tom
And to Wynne
But I had a passport
And it said, please leave me alone
I am a second-class Nova Scotian
And I know my name already
To Pluto with second Frances
And at art but without sudden of hair
We accepted every dear
Of that odious know-job
Of Darwin
And of Pentecost’s remain
To be drilling for pay
To be the cousin of rain, oh, instead
We were foggy
And in search of a random play
Across a desert of totems
In South Bay
Such was the brakehorse
And I knew hours to shorts to ambulances
But six cowers of war
And the way to start a holiday,
Was to sit at the lake,
And win heaven
No, these are not the homing retort
And every Canadian knows of winter upstairs
It was not how I feel,
But of five feet of storms,
For commandant,
For the weary,
For the dread
It’s permanent river myth
To have questions as sovereign as the wheel
So that tongue-myth
And open spirit
For the rooibos I play with my glass
And noted those spies
Who came way down below
The ugliest ask in East Chester
For an oak casket
To parkland
To West Iowa
And to Cowler’s Dan
This is Trudeau
This is Gomery
And I had a vile of rain
For the lucky who had no-one
But nine little dreams
I rowed here
And in a class of my own
To the luckiest LeBlanc
And to the saddest republic
Which was whipped into fabrics of heaven
Supposed to dream
And instantly hatched
We declined
And decided to pray
For the nosed and the cheap
For the simple kind of hiccup
I was active and actually paid
In the best kind of rhythm
An actually bald kind of lie
Which was child pop
And ugly fear
And to no-one’s reunion
But a flag
It is irving
It is lying
It is a dreadful kind of state
And the fifty that shot without aim
So please leave the sattire
As I do by Digby
We are armed,*
And we separately fear
To each Day,
Of the accord
But in Sutton I played every card
So in Québec’s best of all breaths
Who knew the Tenzing of artery
It was the new mule
Of earthward,
Of my ward
At six o’clock
By the New irving standard
I had yellow heat
And a basket of sitting
On each vibrant cord
I was Canadian,
And I cared,
And the government declared mutiny,
For the detached
So that by each swimming arch
And the lotto of Canada,
Which was freedom,
Where we made up the day
In Carlington Rock,
And Maces,
And mine,
I rolled up my flag,
And departed
For that weekend landing
There is no weed here
But a linked option
For my sweetie
For my man
Who knew of the doubling
Of whales
And of Bayshore
It was debunked as a time to undress
And surely at war
By the nine of June for St. Peter
You can park by the underpass
We’ll feed you
And we’ll win
-Jeffery Withers
- The writer has never owned a firearm of any kind and encourages the same.