ECONOMICS.

Sending the explicit,

and saving on royal mail,

aeroplanes sail across the room.

The pilots pissed but still reaches his target.

Bullseye.

Bully for you.

The scene is set.

Sitting at the back

eyes can see all.

She thinks I am too far behind,

that I am a pauper in poorer ranks

while she is the Princess

of false smiles

and banks.

I'm as common as your right arm.

All tracks lead to the heart.

They all have linear lines

from the same play.

Shakespeare wrote about it once I'm sure.

Even kaleidoscopes can see it coming

from a mile off.

This post office of Sonnets:

Pablo, Rosetti,

she throws love around like confetti.

Her finances come from
the stock market of attraction.

She puts a bit of herself

in every exchange.

Lips, hips and budding tits.

Showing potential

that never grows.

She is Queen of Country

who refuses to lose her head

while I am the young Wyatt

to her love.
The pretty words I write

make the impact of a tree

that falls when no one is around

to see or hear

a thing.

The churches eyes follow mine

as she takes advantage

of a more docile faith.

Those stained glass windows

believe you must put the ant

after your protest of innocence.

Its hard work will be true to the cloth.

An apology heals no wounds.
Another plane sails across the room.

This student always reaches her own set targets.

We are at school

and she learns nothing.