This day is worse than the first
A scratching hand is still at the door
And this is more than beyond will.
For the Fork Salad and a Brain Trust local One-O-Seven
They said it couldn’t be done
Benefits for so many needy and of course deserving
Souls,
Departed. Or, just the same,
A food line, the chapter organizers here and there are
Pushing over some bits, fighting to ascend the podium while,
Unmolested, the keg of beer in the corner returns unhurriedly
To room temperature.
One legless member, hook ear and half an eye, plans,
In his after life, which is through a graying
Slobber of preserved being, some
Self revoked to membership through a mirror through a mirror.
And while they still glimmer to vote on limiting dues,
A gobbet of the Exchequer
Gores down Member Fifty Seven’s
Neck and into a pocket-protected front pocket.
There is a motion called to detonate a snake bomb,
And who will inherit the bite to the mouth on the mouth
Who the chunks, see
The members in dredge colored skin,
Skin of rivers and rivers polluted by grabbing smoke stacks
Hungry for sky.
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