Every element in the district swept up funds in skylocked welkin for the sake of the newest presidency. Leaves the colour of earls formulated the trust that would endure the edges of forever, namely the time of changing. This is the sweat of our fairest Obama, a condition and rationing. Thru porous days of agreement funding splayed for sake. We were taught to be lean, in a gravitas sort of way, but the microcosms refused to work. Dated theory rose up in smocks, cultured with a dignity of favoured rocks. How can we crease the paper squarely? muttered Obama, hailing the next sentence. Republican virtue, replied Republican Virtue. Instead of partitions, we have a flock, cried the Wasteland, using the visage of Straight Talk. Straight Talk, itself a margin, flopped on the whale of limit. We are poor kings and queens, sweated Obama, our plain sake. And that conversation (Obama went on) must be pressurized like certain wood used to do things with. All this was patience itself--we logged on to be sure--and the claque refused to contend. In the morning, dew will expose grass to a tendency. Later poets will do the same.