Wheeler-dealer Swayfox always wound up
swaying in the sly of the thicket.
His chain mail tale flowing—
—a crepe gown smudgling
His dagger-smile cutting fruit from under
blushed, bag-waist trees. His loud lids luscious,
his thick stripes of liner. His devil-may-care.
What a sight!
Saw jig, saw handle off accessory wand.
He carries only a magic bauble star
boomerangs it back and forth, carried away
across swampland. His masculine pumps
supporting flared jeans, his backwoods chic,
his biker jacket showpiece glows up
every kid-junker whittled down by
SWAYFOX II(for TH0USANDZZ of BEEZ)
Swayfox chainsaw far into a pavement feud
rose with the blithest of pawing to free any depraved
babes from the police hymnal making ol’ horror
dares to be known for swaying opinion
in the sadly fact of bloodshed situations
where the creamvein crusts over
after a many veinsmack
Swayfox smacks like a wild stone throne into
smoldering populace—smoldering frowzy suits
over-the-knee boots where extravaganza sways
sways, sways, sways, sways
Swayfox, a make-up maestro made up rougey
sometimes wearing the mask of a thousand of bees
thousands of stingers
conducting a swarm of in-fright fashion basics
bow-bloused flight into the hive of hives