Yet, we’re more of a black ant, than red
Kinder, haven’t you heard?
Safer, less likely to hurt?
We succumb our humble heads in scents and hues
We dye our bad blood,
Ambers, Fuchsias, Carmines, Blues
The game of cutting ourselves bleeding
Bursting, splats, like party confetti
To win the heart is to reign royal the world
To lick your dog-eat-dog ears with our flowery words