Yawl make my bowels churn.
Churning this consciousness.
The churn is heaved up to the throat.
And I feel a regurgitation.
So let me know why you prefer the dirt.
Dirtied, soiled sorrowful bread.
Worthless sand-stained; nicknamed sandwich.
So let me know, why loose coins are yours to pick.
Let me know why petty thievery is your course.
Let me know why darkened tracks are where you hide.
The loose coins have custodians,
so they ask; where are my coins.
The darkened tracks are soon lit.
Pretenses helps you none.
Reverse the churned, soiled, paltry back to lit tracks.
And soon be free.