Knar Gavin Ode, Her Neighbor-moms called me fast paste, then flattened their daughters with irons, slow pastures. They chaffed into dust while I, Mouth to the mega hone, pursed, sucked it in. Lashed lids with masc ara—aria of hinge—the sweeping doors of my feathered wink. A real looker, I look. Am also looked back. And man icure sometimes, with a swipe of lacquer, fastest paste. The liquor closet from which I Spring. I snatch the proverbial pooch out from Neighbor-moms' Purse and place fore finger there on the meat of the bitch-dog's hound quarter—I press down to move the whole limb. In this history of limning, I shine. I press the extensor and the leg swings out.