When an old insured bore sits next to you,
his colored tales, self-born, are skilled rainbows.
The reminiscent sky is of tired blue,
in the drowsy land of Nod where old storms doze.
Always on guard, a curved track has anxious claws.
Even in a breeze he hears ambushed sneaks chat.
Doves over carrion are imminent crows.
Dollars bate in his hands, like green spectral bats.