We will live,
In the future.
We will be wrinkled.
Cars will fly,
Ants will rule.
Grey garbs everywhere,
Mind and matter,
No battles there.
Laughter will be chaotic,
Extraterrestrials far away.
In the summertime,
Butterflies will be chased.
The trousers, bespoke, cut to perfection,
Of little-known hand-spun yarn.
Lay in the sun, wringed and vivacious.
To create unique unidentified lines.
Of all the papyrus and linen used,
The wonders of this fabric abound.
From mysterious faraway places,
To the lands of dragons and agung.
To the discerning eye, a sigh of ecstasy,
To the indiscriminate, just a piece of rag.
Beau monde and au naturel, together,
Applauded and flagellated.