Haya

High breds live on cream, so can let you know, what they really think, each dance gives a clue, their wiles only show, a frozen smile on curfew, bursting with balustrade screams, they whirl around nearly yellow, searching for the dream, murdered by this wanton crew, who like to bestow, largesse on the cruel, their night's vain preen, softer than sourdough, sweats them to their knees, dance naked by the trees, you can kiss my sorrow, rub shoulders in mountain streams, call me tomorrow.