You pout your put, cuz, your gut you struck.
What a muck, your swing be tough.
and your confidence, there’s nothing much.
How can you be-so mute?
I boil you with tofu and
spices, like Miso soup.
Aligned shoulders, shooting towards a boulder
obstacle on course, broken with force, like popsicles divorced.
Swing through, a lonely ring, put a finger through,
mood ring, rude sings, in a drawer, it registers; cha-ching!