ELDERLY TRIPLE CHINS

Confuse the muse that marks the spark,
Refuse the booze that makes them bark,
Alone, Autumnal, never ripped,
Upon the shards that sew her rift,

Knit her brown infrequency,
Her afro shine, it speaks to me,
Some like bondage, some like bandage,
Old addages protrude her skin.

Towns, about her mountain peaks,
Frowns upon her puffy cheeks,
Let us win her medicine
Begin to break the moldy seals of the celibate conartists 
Sitting in their castle grinning with the Elderly Triple Chins.

{POETRY}