The missile is launched and the day becomes dismal
A thistle in my heart becomes prominently bristles and barnacles.
The ships are lined up but the crews are not ready.
The only thing chopping besides the waves is a machete
in the kitchen on a board where the chef cuts down hordes upon hordes of potatoes for stew
he nibbles on cheese shredded fine drinking wine
the water bubbles wet, moisture clings to the ceiling
Where is all the crew?
They are out on shore stealing the very last breath out of this very fine day that
comes prepackaged with brown skin and smooth textures for the masses
The missile is locked on, streamlined and deadly
clouds part like crowds as the king spreads the peasants
He shakes in his chariot of advanced metals and circuits
The chef whistles a tune from the broadway play he last say
Like a singular raindrop of gloom on a picnic
the missile rains on the warmth
the chef has cheese in his mustache
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