They tried to sing the rain away
(this is different from the movie, you see,
it's like a buffalo in a bull pen. no? were you
there already?). Got a ways down
the road in short pants, hatless, absorbing
heat through the holes in their heads,
absorbing the dirt in tandem.
In each little bat's heart
stood twin armies, thumping in synchronization
with my iPod, fully prepared to drink dead to silence,
to eat a member of the opposite party.
The place stinks like a prison for rocks
and hits like a Saturday where the beach is empty and cold.
These rocks spit goulashes and sway to fiddle-drums.
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