Day-Broke

It's in the house, where is the poop,
Squatting porcelain doll, facing the 
Music, regatta, juked out the spin

Movement: stretch the sun across
The clouds and wait for the lightning-
Rain, held up by the thundersmoke

Brung on clods that pain the gods with
Unthought out higher beliefs, where 
Did you come from and how do we 
Root you out, when the tendrils went
Way more than six feet beneath the 
Clay and the iron hot ore is poking its
Way into a fiery breath-dragon, who 
Turtled away from society (wisely)

As if owling was not enough: pellets
Of mouse bones tell the story, hunger
On the prowl cannot be sated by morality

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