Squeamish Proper

No safe disturbances or exited bones
No high ground to speak from
No oxen burning for opinions of afternoon
Hanky-panky, no. None of this rising
To axe grind your hopes on a corn mill
By the waters of the city gutters.

No heretic beer. No high garments
Of forbidden coverage, no credit
Discrimination for the usury of children,
Not my child, you shits. No. No script
For the asylum, the velvet clavicle
Of separation to human zones, elbow
To assholes. No hand-grenades
On the gurneys to freedom.