The mush gushes
from the oatmeal
o'mySoul. I sowed
my oats wildly and
now i weep, reaping
a harvest gone far too
golden for the sold of my
prostaken soil. O Boil, O puss
my boil my oil in a breakfast rush
o oil, camphored toil, roil the waters
round my meal, rolled flat, and dried desert
add browned sugars squared bitterness like a sting
o poised won dearly, o poisson, poissant, feed my wholes.