Saturday, July 4, 2009

They Live by Rote

She's so angry, the hair
burnt off her head.
The hattered cat
frisked the Calvin smote...
he lost in the sub-dewing.

An open mouth gape
in demonic demise...
he gloried with ears
of the dead 
to her incessant chatter
of doom, in a sorry rosary
of forgetfulness...
biding time,
to deliver her a stinging
punch line.

Unto them a savior was born...

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