Poem: Transformation

I’ve killed the jive, it was omnipresent,
Hanging in certain old rooms,
Juvenile, incessant, persistent of a fool;
Smaller distances are infected fast,
With hymns and humans on every bark;
A faulty road surpassed by ghoul,
Where orange and grey masters rule,
Of an affinity towards a copper statue
Built in disguise in your greener side.
I’ve killed the jive, and hence completed,
A circle of such vicious pieces;
And through them peek and past protrude,
And in them my reflection, prude
Is maybe that road expected,
Far from what was tested;
And hence in that solstice’s hive
I went ahead and killed the jive;
And chose the latter longer lide,
And with no guilt, how I’m surprised.
The transition is not even done,
Is it Not the pun?
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