Tens of Hen in a Pen
Waiting for their chance to come

Chance to breathe some nice fresh air
Chance to enjoy the joy of freedom

No, No, No, nothing like that
Is going to happen for the hens

I am sure their turn will come
Which will cause their ugly Death

They will get killed one by one
And become nice food for some

There are tracks that flow thorough
the simplistic white trails,
a view where many would
            see nothing but
                              blinding avenues.

But there is always a path winding

Never letting the confusion of white
    show that there are steps beyond
                                   the powdered reflections.

Though we may make a crease in the hillside
                          of destiny remember that new
                          memoirs will always fall
                                           covering our failings.

We are on a ***** of pure white,
and only we can make a wrong turn.
                                What avalanches may fall
are of our own false footsteps.

Learning from where we fell.
                         If we don't get up
it shows that we trod wrong and where
buried beneath the white covering our every mistake.

We were the poison
      that each other wanted.

You bit me
                   &
                and I bit you.

And together we died
     in ecstasy within
      each others arms.

A handful of water thrown like glitter to bead against reflective floors
Mirrors my cage in a hundred different ways
If I look closely enough I can see myself that free, that open
With every breath I taste the sharp tang of memories
That without you will never sit with sugar on my tongue again
Now I’m not blaming you or this wooden heart that bobs aimlessly without direction upon this endless see of caged reflection
Just exercising atrophied muscles with which I learn to stretch, to feel
Without drowning these polished plains I place cold feet on each morning
I am Alice here, skirts twisted above my head to obstruct the view
Although I know I do not wish to see it’s vast edges
Not unless they’ve painted you

(Can be sung to the tune of "Santa Claus Is Comin' to Town")

You'd better take heed; you'd better not bawl
When you read all the writing on the wall:
You are going to be IMPEACHED.
You can deny what you have done,
But you cannot fool everyone.
You are going to be IMPEACHED.
Mueller's digging deeper,
No matter what you do.
No matter what you think or say,
He's got the goods on you.
So! You'd better take heed; you'd better not bawl
When you read all the writing on the wall:
You are going to be IMPEACHED.

Putin can say he wasn't involved,
And you say, "Hey! Now I'm absolved."
You are going to be IMPEACHED.
Republican friends in Congress can try
To undermine the Mueller probe and lie.
You're still going to be IMPEACHED.
The people in this country are jumping up and down.
Finally there'll be oversight: the Dems have come to town.
So! You'd better take heed; you'd better not bawl
When you read all the writing on the wall:
You are going to be IMPEACHED.

You think that you are free and clear.
Keep your eyes open as storm clouds near.
You are going to be IMPEACHED.
You can say "No collusion" each day.
The truth of the matter won't go away.
You are going to be IMPEACHED.
Among your co-conspirators someone's spilled the beans;
Someone's told the truth about you,
And you know what that means.
So! You'd better take heed; don't weep and wail.
Worst case scenario: time in jail.
You are going to be IMPEACHED.

-by Bob B (12-10-18)