1800
The hour glass of the night stays in the bunker,
Dreaming of the denial that my stomach hungers,
Popping the trunk to recognize the bass,
Tweeting the signature of my upper echelon race,
Searching the car for all of my rags,
Surveilling the ashes of the windy flag,
Fighting the wars that I was placed to do battle,
Massing the masses of suspected travel,
Backing up the heavens as she lie there,
Watching the chickens stay close to the lair,
My best should not treat my homeboy as meat,
But in the morning we all have to eat,
A special recipe patented by crowds,
Still at a distance the gunshots are loud,
Friday’s skip flying over my head,
Soon as the moon rise from the dead,
Low tech fleets flock together,
Missing again the corn in the weather,
Mashing the body of herds against mine,
Allocating resources as I hunger in time.
