Whatever You’re Asking For

A cornsilk mane, atop wiry frame,
laconic through a Gainseville rose,
accenting gravelly fountains,
brimmed with wine and lipped in nose.

Cigarettes packed, cherries owing,
moons and hearts all a-glowin’,
broken up into two jukebox sides,
‘neath the dark America snowin’.

Tracked-down treks , half-quarter decks,
memorized wrecks across states on
the simple studied beat–applying
his simmerful muddling heat:

“My girl, my girl, come idea with me,”
sly knocking we needed to slow,
hear a fender tap of that cherub-wing cap,
choruses now with us now in the know.

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