Archive
03/18/11
Shed
Whoa, boys! Hold your horses, cows, and pigs! Bar the barn door, Nellie, Catie — whoever in hell you are! Or is all the shouting Just a way-too-late, eleventh-hour, Over-the-precipice, pissing-in-the-wind contest, To see who can spit and shit and holler the loudest, Without making the slightest dent In God's dead-end Fire-and-brimstone vengeance against mankine?
Could it be that, indeed, it's too all-fired god-dang late, Since the critters got out of their stalls, Got shed of the barn, before the barn door was locked, But not so much before That they didn't have time To drop-kick shit out of the lantern, If not the bucket, in Mrs. O'Leary's shed, Which shed light on her shed's overcrowding problem, As the shed burned to beat all hell,
Groaning to the ground, shedding its hapless mass, Like Atlanta, in flames, After Sherman's rapacious herd of blue-uniformed cattle Raped, ransacked, and ravaged its incredulous O'Haras, When Earth's shed billeted and fed a mere 1.5 billion, Which would double, in less than a hundred years, Only to double again, and then some, by today — 6.8 billion of us livestock, Whinnying, mooing, oinking to be silaged, in the shed.
03/18/11
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