Orange cone, orange cone,
orange cone; you want three
but he has four. Smart man
in his Dockers, cool in shades.
Moves the cones here and painful,
he caresses angles. Then real
man is on the scene, strong man.
Orange cone, orange cone, brown
shoes, white socks. We’re talking
thirty-five thousand smoked pounds
of bus ::: that’s my guess. Flow-
yellow flow dude who’s cool, but
orange cone, orange cone, orange
cone man smacks flow-yellow flow
dude with two-handed orders. Easy,
easy, easy. Then real, real man
carries boisterous batteries who
scream, HI, DEVIL! Titanic and he
is huffing, and orange cone man is
basking as chief man with his brown
shoes and spits in venomous wind
which fucks with new Honda, but
Swedish lady in Honda does not
leave smart phone. Real man, Mr.
Modest, does all the doing. Sneaky
pink on all that’s left – is orange
cone, orange man, brown cone, white
socks. Smiling ghosts in cocky
shell of town. Orange cone, orange
cone, blue bus, sink me. Erase
me. Orange
stillfugue 