Tuesday, June 9, 2015


I loathe the shrieking cry
That plovers make.
I hate the hacking,
Piercing soar of it.
I love chiming verse
Sons of glovers make
And only wish
I could know more of it.

When I take my walk
On the beach at dusk
I see what really stirs
The people's lust.
TV newscasts blink
Through the open blinds -
They'd see the sea
If they just looked behind.
Yet on the slopes
They build to block the view;
It's all for them,
Not for the likes of you.
For you and I are tenants
Of the dark,
Confined to flats
Where we can leave no mark.

And in daylight
The hateful plovers screech,
While predators and freaks
Teach kids to sell.
The world's rotting,
A cesspool of false speech
That mucks up minds,
And hardens hearts for hell.

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