rich, but rural

Time is

time was

time shall be no more

O grave, where is thy victory?

O death, where is thy sting?

I could never die too much

And I won’t kill myself too little

I might be myself or not

Write myself away and brittle

I might tie myself a knot

hand myself around and rot

like the citizens in class,

with their rich, but rural, parents

I get lockjaw

when I talk to them

from yawning at their words