Weary as an old plow,
dulled blades from too many rotations,
Death looms on every channel.
Don't they ever tire of the swords?
Slicing brains like so much red meat,
cleaved in the womb,
No blood, just catsup, to give it that
all American flavor.
is what we have made it, gourmet
bitter herbs and ginger,
made of ash.
ⓒ 2010 The Unknown Candidate