North of Woodstock
O, ghosts.
Most of Tom’s Robots rot. From old to gold. Too posh for songs of odd socks. Too soon to go cold, fold on lost flops.
Scoot won’t box for no books. Won’t dot to dot or look for Boston polls. Not born to knock on doors, from door to door to floors forlorn. So torn from jobs of God.
No fools, no.
Go stock pods or pop popcorn onto moons. Jock’s got condoms for goons. Lott’s got mooks who drool on Bob’s cock from noon to clock’s wrong. Too long for frost on doorknobs. Tons of locks worth horror shocks. Not plots of dogs, frogs or foxtrot bogs.
No.
Bold boos mock blooms so hot. Coo for snot rocks to stop on Rod’s cot. Food for Rocco’s boss. Broth for Ox of St. John’s Cross. Off to flood both blood clots, so doctors don’t nod off from post-op.
Top of Pogo’s Loft - pots of sod for soft blossoms.
Bottom of Connor’s block – rooks follow lost bros.
Doo wop’s not long for sold worlds. Nor pop/rock or old bops. School’s forgot who stood for good rooms or floss shorts.
Do not bond or hold no lord.
North of Woodstock, brood moths cook swords.
