Like muddied water at end of day

You bring the poor man’s worms.

An armament for vice

breathe soft your cries of grim dismay

the orchard lines the field for mice

much like your caustic sense discerns.

A fire burns that Fowlers lit

for birds like Icarus as they fall.

Stay vipered Glycon, bejeweled witch

dance merry with the lashers twitch

from where I stand, you’re want to sit

And churn the cancerous stomach wall.

All my days had been fair use

‘til sour turned the prairie trail.

Those you have, I do rebuke

pray scorn, stupidity makes them mute,

to sing amongst your vaginal refuse.


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