A clove, a clutch, a trussell

A bramble, a bundle and rush

Buffoons, balloons, the fools

Are tools, rust sweat at noon they must.

The nails all rolled and wrangled

In the endless tussle fuss,

But never rough the newfangled

They rather would gather dust.

All while thorns for horn wood

Thatch the thistle born thrush

But misted all their misunderstood

And founded our wanderlust

Oh the petals dance in a deepening fever

On lofty high winds, they must

For the fires that flick at flows and leaders,

Loathe let leaves fall for trust.