I could pretend that they’re is some kind of deep message buried in the depths of the intellectual imagery of this poem, but I would be lying. In all honesty, this is another foul, odorous cloud of rubbish, rising from the fetid depths of the I-was-very-tired-and-possibly-slightly-delirious-when-I-wrote-this vault.
Flow from pants
Their minds devoid of thought or reason
To welcome in the harvest season