Reformed In His Lunch-Hour Poem by james watkin

Whom status let a city hang o'er
Canyon-like its miserableness
With a lordly steep's overflow
Of slippery mouthiness

One abashed day, bright flocks' luring
Suit and tie's, for to molt
Was he, in little boy fashion
Took aside with a jolt;

Of each scale-armed, but for old tree
Statured strickly a dean!
With a million quizzing hot probes
Eying down to demean.

Out from a sage's long robed shade
Grand old park's, what was shed?
Air's thought-clearing, for instruction.
Guileless poignancies read.