Again tonight that couple next door has decided to vomit their hatred on the lawn,
He is lazy,
But she's a whore so I guess that makes them even.
The size of their hand gestures,
Comical.
The sound of their daughter crying on the porch step,
Typical.
Hands high against a bright purple sky,
Their visceral anger is frozen in its tracks.
The lightning so shamelessly bright,
And thunder so excessively full,
I feared the backfire of a something-caliber.
And yet, maybe it was.
Maybe some winged creatures,
So disgusted with our wasted mortality,
With our hunks of dying flesh and stands of protein hair,
Made a suicide pact.
And then, as this couple so unabashedly bashed,
One decided it was time to end the show.
The backfire bright and the brain spatter loud,
It was only enough to momentarily close a mouth.
This fight, this dirty lawn slander,
Not the last one in Avondale by a very long shot,
So profoundly disturbed those multi-eyed and feathered saints,
And they started up again before any blood could clot.
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