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.