Babble-On Without Me

My axe to grind is my
Cross to bear
Bares me fairly well too
Snagged this post
Past May’s sun
Where the hot sand strikes
And the beggars run

Days digital free
With such ease
Your dragons cast
No spells on me

Vitriol we’ve got in spades
Sporting far past Mary’s maids
Those now donning masks like
shilling hypocrites
desperate and pathetic
yet obliged
to let sleeping dogs lie
lest we guess correct who
next falls for their
Insipid shallowness

No, that be
Not I
Your Babylon no longer
Tempts me even
Your sirens
Whispering in tubs or
Your pale-eyed
forked-tongued snubs

My worship returns as
Your Babylon burns
Rather to the tick on
Bubba’s arse
Than one moment more of
This so-called
Civilized
Farce

Author: KenshoHomestead

Creatively working toward self-sufficiency on the land. View all posts by KenshoHomestead