one word cinched robe: texture

legroom, leggings
ill fit the tide
you're on, ill fit
the robo room, where
fit glides
the globalest warming
imaginable, frisky
recompense, simplicity
in nine colors
roy's biv and then some,
carousel's regaling
pipers piping
fantastic twirler tans
begetting
the last stand
at home and in the circling
wagons. variegated
whimsy asks little
to nothing, but
that urchin still
seems a lot, more than
the Christchild offers
on layaway, that nod
to commerce that waylays
the crimson tide
of nadja's fancy,
the one she
promenaded down
to the river front,
the one she begged
beyond simple mercy,
the one
she gave amply
at offices
far and wide. this speech
was noble,
but the ring
finger tells all:
run into your frozen
fields my children,
the elves are back
in their woods,
the last homely
whistled by your
ears, the nomads
fed you with no
hands, no demands, no
blue gods deeming
the rest
as you flower.