Royally so, He Said, and Heinous Not To

You're not a shoehorn over-jonesing for the shoe,

or oozing like a spikenard, overeager

as an Easter weasel in the egg yard.

What's one more day of Hey I'm busy, or at the tops, two? -

you could produce impressive trash from paperwork, noodle

your guitar...

Royally so, he said, and heinous not to.

You're not some over-bubbling barrel full of crude,

or mooning when a minor moan would do,

although her whisper stones you to your brainstem.

You're not a shoehorn over-jonesing for the shoe,

although your eyelids flash, and it thunders, and the bed frame's

spastic, and roiling froth's already over-juicing multitudes

of tree wells. Royally so, he said, and heinous not to.

You were never overpruned, you're not some leafed-out

staked thing

leaping on its leashes to be wet up in the rain-