Jabbertalk or Turnboline

Turnboline, Turnboline:
lay your turntoys down,

lay your sticky-wicky turntoys 
like a burden down

and walky-talk away from the broken town 
and the dangling sticky-stuck paper

immodestly hung in a modest town:
Fly away. Far away. Fly today. 

Lurbotine, Lurbotine: 
turn your turnbows down

from the trotsy-wotsy to the turn-bo town
where the beagles blow

and the rainbows yawn and you wish a war
in cameo brown, 

but have never got in the daze of yore
legs of greasy pants in a grocery store.


So just flitter enough that mites may mingle
in a mighty maze where no one is single 

and graze like a phrase in a tangled smear 
of words where a fingernail’s pointing.

There’s a lot of fear where joints grow spindly
and the dance is queer and writing is squiggly,

so the scene winds down to a tingly jingle
that’s a sort of sway down and far away.


so that handsome isn’t what handsome does
if it’s left alone and the choirs moan

and the distance severe that the rear serves notice
it’s no longer seen but for lack of sheen

and nothing seems as once it was, 
but isn’t different, it simply isn’t,

but has gone astray in its own way
but can’t remember when it wasn’t.