From the badgering treetops
To the lowly park bench
Four youths
Smoking
Trees hang like butterfilies from
Fillies
a hatchery’s rooftop
where the butterfly hatcher has poowerful values
and
lots
of
children, and
poo.
Listen to what I’m saying to you
Make sense of it, make sense of this,
I beg you
Because
I
Can’t.
Close your eyes
Forget
No-one is listening
Except you.
Do you hear it?
Do you?
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I continue to be lost in a realm of butterfly poo. But, at least now, I can identify the type of poo I stand in. For this I would like to give thanks to my mother, politicians, and probably my gym coach who had a habit of molesting students.
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