Yoghurt

What are you hiding from me Rosie?
Because I've begged the bible too many a taste.
A time for white shores, diamond clouds should make haste.

Too late to undress? I'll pack before you can say-
Rewind. Your father's hair grew back yesteryear.
Too kind, prepare, I've grown into a wrestler.

You fed off my armpit for far too short,
until it fried by the rays of the porch-corridor.
Confined to great libraries in which we voiced twice.

Guard dog's a groundswell, I lose count when I sharpen the smithy,
Fallen for Rosie, yoghurt pot,
pot-headed - where's the smithy?

Feeding off what's friable,
Frailty is your surname.
What's reliable in this house of consolidation?

Question.
Universally-born for your master's truth,
Indigestion lies within these parts.

There is no yoghurt in these parts.