Kapua

I sat in a mortified sombridge A green malaise washed My pen over the spare sheets She kept for a Post opus change. She made working peddles From a blotted machine attached string, gears, hammers Doorbells and Half a Philippina Trumpet to the dying Sow. She screamed morose Apogees through A snoutfull of slop To the hundred and fourth division   Of the Neptune sector. Her Space Camp halted Stampedes of ignorant Mollities, but failed To remove the legions. Now a far-faited Skyship on white peeks She returns to the sound of Salted meat frying.