They called us backwash babies.
Better sense inducted us
to a more mythic plane.
With that, the sane stayed satisfied
and the pied piper threw himself into the river,
his last words being “Stick the pension up your ass!”
Truly, it was either high time or high tide,
with a rucksack stuck to a crucifix
pressing its judgment into a puree.
Life indeed moves at a different speed here,
so different it’s excruciating, like,
everybody feels like they’re waiting constantly,
but know not what they’re waiting for.
On and on the litany goes, but
knows not what it names.
A violet shame induced a fever
like a wrecking ball made of sunshine,
made every straight line of dialogue wavy
and saved us all the burden
of holding on to corpses.
Outside, the four horsemen
were offering free hugs.