Well, here's a poem

and with your sweat now striped
and with your tinged night-eyed slight
how it wallowed like a dog in his cloudy bright sight
and brought flags to fly and wires to splice.

burn down the crash pad towers tonight
at first sign of the crow-flock's strife,
make meals, spin wheels by crazy delight
and come breaking balsa shells with backs of knives.

under three large rocks you'll get your coins
and your chance to fling all the choir bins open to
the world-iris of punchy cased and delicate things.
only then will god's bushy black brow look about
for times forward when with will accords
what it affords and planar bends make lending soars.