A sonnet for the atlas,
Bundled in premature joy,
Strange people wearing glasses,
Ringing the bell Ahoy,
Walking hand in hand past us,
Leaping about in happy faith,
Like tree hugers in Manassas,
In that matter shall I now make shape,
Ha! Now I am showing my assets,
A doubtful cup of hint so blue,
Of candle burnt to wax us,
A morning cup of coffee hence the dew,
Fortitude could be at once disastrous,
In a linear line of hearsay spent peruse,
General delivery for the masses,
Where the bad ass looks past it..........
FTBAS 8.17.12
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