I Am Now Your Own Private Spook Brigade

Check me, fun wig candy spun ringlet red to ultra,
a peignoir smocked breast tattered ladder stitch ribbon
greased up hem, reflective glasses from the chop cop.
Nothing, though, 'til you see my stickware.

Dinner's under the sheet. Squirmy, fixed yet. A ring
of salt, charred some, table's edge. I'll have you know
it's a stew.

A grim little sliver that fits the ignition, a grape scented
fibrous gallon of puncture. A tutelage ripe in fringe
sanitation, don't you tell me I never you nothing you did.