If in poetry court she was called to testify on matters where was condemned to imprisonment: parking my goat a broken meter, line violations, forced rhyme, dealing stanzas to children, shooting off my mouth, getting cute, for even this latest attempt at verse, she would tell the whole truth, she would admit from the piton her unsung brilliance, from all the paintings and poems she herself has been making and storing in the vast empire of her singing soul, your Honor, my daughter is guilty of plagiarizing my cells.

Drum Machine