My backyard is a conceptual failure of imagination.
I swear, ownership is a farce.
Made to stick by carrion fouls.
There was no official to call it, and the floppers ruined the rules.
Roosts are in the mind.
Henhouses are metaphors to set up foxes
For the feast in every heart.
Why, if there is a backyard, should anything awful
Be in anyone's?
We need it is code for It benefits me,
And I do not consume the harm.
Beautiful. A self-service first ideal.
The amendment before the first,
Resembles the second,
And takes up its hands 
As well as those on the take
To determine what a backyard is
And who must drink this dirty water.

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