Fat Mind: Get this.
Goons: Yes boss?
Fat Mind: We’ll set Clubfoot up as King.
Goons: That idiot?
Fat Mind: The very one.
Goons: The citizens won’t stand a trick like this.
Fat Mind: They won’t know what hit ‘em. We’ll disguise it as a vote.
Chorus of the Fat: We’ll sit still for that, like we always do for shit.
Fat Mind: Just sugarcoat the crap and call it cake.
Goons: We’ll need more salt to suit the modern taste.
Fat Mind: A touch of tallow, labeled spice.
Goons: The chemists will produce upon the tongue a natural delight.
Fat Mind: Double every dose and cut the price in half.
Goons: We’ll scarf it down like hamburger.
Fat Mind: The rest is gravy.
Meet me in the Cumberland
Your eyelids painted silver
Cheeks aflame in dancing cranes
Meet me when the moon is full
With songs of ravens on your tongue
And hemlock on your breath
Meet me at the gate on Cemetery Hill
Your seven veils falling loose
At midnight in the cypress trees
Meet me as my lover on these graves
Until serpents coil in our hair
And our bodies turn to stone:
Need something to fear.
Russell Streur is a born again dissident residing in Atlanta, Georgia. His poetry has been published in the United States and Europe. He currently pours drinks at The Camel Saloon, an online poetry bar for dromedaries, malcontents and jewels of the world. Which one are you? http://thecamelsaloon.