The rancid air has stricken a still
And the cities bereft of love
Only a mockery masquerading thereof:
Aged creatures rolling in loose skin,
Like a sea of rabid honey badgers,
Yet not sweet as honey,
And with the bite pressure of a toothless dentist;
They shift amongst the sidewalks,
Crawling and whining and hissing and screeching
And dancing a mad dance
The likes of which was choreographed by a goat-legged rust-shone man
From a pot of boiling excrement where he washes his undergarments
And hums a lullaby to the great beyond.
The parks have no trees that bear leaf, only foul-odoured fruit
That are apace replaced upon dropping: with others of its drooping ilk.
The weary eyes of those passersby will never shut,
As if being pried open by clefts of artificial light,
Manufactured in a harrowing pit dug for oil
Where ungrown men weep nightly in fear of the unlit sky.
A grave factory lies in-mid of a hacked moat adrift with unripe unborns,
Their weeping mothers run aside in parade, protesting their own virtues;
Yet self-flagellation ends not, with every third step being a backlash.
Nearby, a couple argue over a coin, in want to cross the stygian moat,
Yet the ferryman is napping and the manufactory is over-filled;
A shrill sound reckons from the wiley pit,
A krill mound beckons: Hither, hither! You who did us deliver!
Those around only hear their own sound.
Elsewhere, a sludge river is made god-abhorrent;
A torrent, a torrent!
Nobody drinks, merely engaging in superficial worship.