The foam in the yellow cup

Crusted from the experience

Why does the ideas sometimes end up

Not begun

The green still unempty

Keeps us here but makes half of us

Grumpy

The cans, HA the cans, the

Foolish the provided

The funkiness soon subsided

The coin is there now. But

Why such a limit on things

That riches won’t allow

The plate a flat disk

Cradling the remains of

A delight forgotten now

But it is us who

Must go to sleep