Anatomy Of Each Fortune Poem by Peter S. Quinn

Give us some young - old,
What it is I don't know;
Reasons bound to unfold,
Inside this and that show.
Rising like a heat wave,
All that is now going on;
Take away and all enslave,
What is differently done.

Anatomy of each fortune,
Is not what you say or do;
It's like more how you turn,
And if it has that patsy pooh.
Sometimes into empty space,
It's going into reviewers fry;
Not too many different ways,
That you can use or try.

Run away or make your day,
It's a strange turning state;
Feel and understand each way,
Styles apart in each debate.
Easy going one way street,
Where will it then all end;
Here's much rubbish indeed,
Nothing durable to comprehend.