This part is stolen directly from my son.
"Maybe Lizbeth is a thorn activist.
When the world's no fair and has thorns, she cuts thorns.
A moog with a new jet engine, no eye focus, no body focus,
but tomorrow on a concrete bank, our essay, life and force.
Her quinceañera in the pines, then amar, then beryl
They play it on a minor lute.
The strings and testing struggles,
buzz with small intention, flown in octaves like Octavia.
Her various release, and Wes Montgomery's
and Monk Montgomery's groove elaborate tension.
Star candy of the stubble fields, orange and yellow
on the ground, and scratched up track figures sweetness.
Perry is hiding in my tummy.
I'm Lois Scott.
I sound her lungs, her daddy's sound, your mom's, dad's lungs,
black, lonesome sound.
Is she your mom?
Is that her gun?
Yeah.
The high commonness of our collection,
armed for transition.
Love to sing, love to shop, shoot.
They don't exist because I'm a kid.
I want two babies.
I'm holding them.
They would come visit to look at a tree, and then to bridge,
and I would get them toys and steal their shoes with coal,
because my social pleasure rhymes with them.
Maybe Bessie is a thorn activist.
When she put a circle on the way you wander, sharper now,
the way you chart and turn to devastate, she takes turns."