Breaking My ABC Viginity With: The Haunting Of the Mews

The night train is passing again, rocking the mews and waking the puce.
He stews, pushing plethora and puke, mumbling sick-chanted meows
with a deuced-doggy lung.

A man is haunting amen, tainting the bed and flashing the dead.
He sits, placing irons and chains, whistling unearthly delights
through a chasm of pearls.

Skin and soul are thinking akin, forcing the fury and fighting the jury.
They sleep, pining history and hope, whisp’ring misgiving maligns
in a channel of lies.

The night train is hushing again, stilling the mews and shushing the puce.
He stays, holding solids from void, snorting ill-mannered rumbles
to the moths and the mice.