stiletto crow - poetry show

Treadstone

Full-grown lambs loud
bleat from hilly Jason,
and wit, too pissed
to scream “voilà la guerre!”
attacks few-winged cookies.

Bug the hanging heart.
Lack, your name be known,
breaded, stripped, lip-clicks.
Sunken foal, flailing in pungent cider,
happiest lynch – you left
the door of care worms
where such salty sprayed-on style be open.

Same-named compounds
eat out a living,
blue shrugged off with jigs;
bottles in the distance,
stone me if I cared less,
dampen must-see laws.

A
tooth seared mum would do.
At ease, fellow mod;
ology, ology widows widest.