Wednesday, October 19, 2016


The sun is shining in the sky.
The grass is growing tall.
I stand with my scythe in hand,
Ready to reap all,
To take what can be taken from
What itself presents
Within the land assigned to me,
Within a barb-wire fence
That lets me see how others' fields
Are neatly trimmed and mown,
Or else how many others' fields
Are greatly overgrown.
What fertilizers they have used
Are not well known to me,
But I have to think they're piles of shit
That have made what I see.

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