Dry Poet
the precipitation
of a dry poet is parched
the Agents
have taken away
the dry rag filtering drops
of water upon dying lips
a storage tank
filled with chlorinated
investigation holding ten years
of evidence is on the table
the mob pipeline
predicts the winter
forecast there will be
no snow only a pair of
heroines whose ocean is on time
you die the godfather
is no match for the Heavenly Father
Copyright Ms. Sage Sweetwater
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And according to your poem, there won't be the kind of winter snow that, when melted, will help provide water for your parched lips anytime soon to speak out.
Sorry to hear about the Ford GT having been put under wraps. But any gold rap will do, wouldn't you?
Ron