cNutgroist

a nice friday poem, for this most friday of thursdays...

when the sun is high in the moonlit sky
and the wind blows its furious gentle breeze
rain pounds down upon the clouds above
the dry scorched plains of the sinking swamp
that drains this arid, mountainous bog
into the barren sea of salty watery juice
within which lives not fish nor fowl
save but for the scale-finned sea-fish
and all the beaked and feathered ones
on land the saddest sight unseen
birds without wings, four-legged tragedies
fly they no more, gravity-bound by god's known hatred
of the legless snake and the balding frog
once proud birds now fucked out of the air
to satisfy the devil's love for a poo-free hat.
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