Wrung Out

When will it end, Where

Does the road bend? Over

A little, taking too much

Of borrowed dregs.

A doll waiting to be fixed;

Performing without legs.

Wring out your bleached

Soul; hang out to die.

Collect the pinching peg.

The sun strains to burn

The battered head.

Wasps enter, squatting

Underfoot. Disinfect your

Tracks and sever every root.