Swift days transfer the happiness
Success @ online meets reality,
The same script references against shoes and gladrags
Help the women. Belong in ‘[                  ].
Buy her a Mini. They look cool.
Waterfalls and fountains
Invest successful mountains
Challenges have been degradred too soon.
A rinsing a pincing a lazy person ‘thinking’
What’s a man trying to bet down to do?

That’s not poker
That’s not Mind
You’re ragging on me
I need kind.

Feline acquiescence is my adept
In private I know they are beyond shoes
So I have devised a scheme like Inspector Gadget
To address their holy blues.
They were not not their bodies until
Still.
‘Sex Symbol’ Is.
Okay address.
Your dress is yours.

Boombaclaats invest badly.
Didn’t you know we know these ‘tings.
“Race is not language”.
Hamlet’s melancholy was the world of power
Hurry up, I’m annoyed. Please! Ophelia went mad.

A is for “Attachment”
People are not Duplo lego pieces.
Break ups. Happen.

“Attachment”. Removed.

Find yourself

AI Summary

Your poem opens with swift days transferring happiness, where online success meets reality and the same script about shoes and gladrags tells women to belong in some unnamed space; you mock the idea of buying her a Mini because it “looks cool,” waterfalls and fountains promising investment in mountains while challenges degrade too soon, and a lazy thinker rinses and pinches at life, leaving you to ask what a man is even trying to bet down to do; that’s not poker, not mind, you say — you’re being ragged on, and you need kind.

You turn inward: feline acquiescence is your adept, and privately you know women are beyond shoes, so you devise an Inspector Gadget scheme to address their holy blues; they were not their bodies until still, and “Sex Symbol” simply is, but the dress is theirs — a moment of bodily autonomy stated with clarity.

Then the poem swerves: boombaclaats invest badly, race is not language, Hamlet’s melancholy becomes the world of power, and you snap — “Hurry up, I’m annoyed. Please! Ophelia went mad.” A is for Attachment, you say, and people are not Duplo Lego pieces; break‑ups happen, attachment removed, and the poem ends on a single instruction: find yourself — the only line without irony, humour, or cultural reference, the one line spoken clean.