The Monrovians

The running honest jar of honey
Picked clean by septic phalanges
Ran a train through its crocodiles;
The flimsy boys were dragged for miles
Into the staring sun. Attila
Stabbed them dead with a looseleaf.
His gun was lust, used up and male
As the other bee in the bee orgy
To take each spear to the head.
The company of bullworms meets thus:
Legion, legion, it is all gone,
It is gone they chant in parade
That one day ripped up ribs won’t
Greet the passers-by in Adelaide.
What flower but the one treaded on
Looks up so childlike at you, killer?

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~ by Jeremy on March 25, 2011.

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