there is an orange jungle,
where the concrete meets the grass.
And the women, walk
on all fours
and the men, bloodthirsty, crass
crouch behind trees
wearing top hats-
wearing neckerchiefs and gloves,
with dirt beneath their fingernails,
crouched in a feral stance.

The ladies have around their necks
dangling diamond gems,
and golden rings with emeralds
and rubies they defend,
and hanging from the mud-smeared chests,
the exposed ribs, the thighs and *******,
are strings of torn-up flapper dress.

(only the best) these rags of dress
that trail through the mud and grime
that reminisce of ***** and drinks
and girls with pearls, and girls with minx
and men in dapper suits and ties-
and then the vision flits and dies
when in the orange jungle deep
where the grass meets the gray concrete
a tiny clan of humans sleep-

the masquerade
that they betrayed
that last swing-dance
that took a trance
and led them to an un-rest sleep,
where they run in a jungle deep
from eras that left them behind
now feral, now, inhuman, blind
the orange jungle swallows whole
the tiny people its time stole.