Don’t Give me a Canary

this version is security fraud
my drug seeking daily jogger
happier than a new york doll
if old women without hints
tell you all about love secrets
it’s those 3rd world kitchen
therapies with flesh eating fish
that ask questions like breakfast
ubiquitous onion in typical plates
panhandles our black hat crowd
wrap leather cords to prescribe
what’s left for naming ceremonies
when regrets are handsewn wigs
this could be about bauhaus