Figment

psychedelic

Beehive Locks

Rollin trails on jazzy winds,
trodden tiles of roadway chimes,
sing unto your six-inch heels.
Crack a lil gloss-n-glam,
Oh Amy, Oh lady!
No trigger, no sham,
no shimmer, no damn.

The rhythm of blue
in your rants of Brew,
tangle into
those beehive locks.
Short frocks
that spoke of
the tough, the stuff and the cocks.

And you sold the soul
that spoke
the spokes, the strokes, the jokes
from your
chimney smoke.
Roll up, snuff and puff,
the smoke curled up your beehive locks.

The strands of hair
twirled in
the thinning air,
a joint of crack
coughed up
a nightmare.

Oh, but those beehive locks!
No,
the wretched clock knocks.
Murders and mocks,
delivers and shocks,
your pirate ship
to
deserted docks.

Oh Amy, my love!
Love, honey, Amy.
In divine blasphemy,
your Beehive locks,
drop a honey-drop,
and my eyes lay down
a tear-drop.

Nothing said
Nothing sung
Nothing done
It was a real good pun.

Your beehive locks,
Your beehive locks,
in only memory now,
shall take a bow.
Miss Amy Frau,
your beehive locks,
are in my talks,
are in my stalks,
your beehive locks.

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