I have created little

I have created little

Worthy of the time it took

To grow nasal hair

I stood in the queue for brains

Like everybody else

With too much personal space

To fill

Rotting from the inside out

Until my hippocampus

Was covered in mud

Mud glorious mud

There is nothing quite like it

No cooling the blood.

After midnight

When the hens ran wild

There were more than a hundred

In the village.

Feral chickens,

Who would have thought?

They come home to roost

Every night

Even in winter.

The rats wait until

They dig out the trash

And find a Fox in the box.

The chics run around wide-eyed

Horrified to find the ground

Covered with dirt and feathers.

The local yokel

Thought it was an apocalypse

When the juice ran out

Of his soda stream.

Sensible heads

Are unrelated to age

But are still a rare commodity

On the farm

Where they butcher fresh blood

And wear hospital gowns

To feed the birds.

Everything shuts down

For Sunday service

But when the time comes

There is no getting away

From senility

If it has you in its sights

Pluck out the crosshairs.

No matter how long the grind

At the meat counter

Wait until they re-brand

Nervous systems

As hormone replacement

Save the coupons

There is more to be angry about

Than broken sleep.