Cranberry

Living lies, lieing in bed, cranberry said,
the rose girl said,
cranberry said, we’d end up in bed,
We’d end up in bed, speaking non languages,
lips moving to beats and rhythms
that were majestically and pretty,
lips quivering and baking in the suns of our imagination,
breaking the tithes of church Sunday mornings we’d go to when we were kids,
Breaking the tithes and eating the postres that were imaginably soft in our bellies,
With the goo of melted sugar,
“corn sugar sweet dick trip top rickity split,” cranberry said,
And we’d dance in the moonlight were her exact words,
watching porch lights talk to each other, and crickets light up the grass with song;
It was in cranberries own words, and she saw it coming cause of her ways,
The ones which keep her in the know, you know how she can be,
Cranberry.