I sit surrounded by the carnage of the day’s efforts: Words dismembered, metaphors bled dry. I flap my wings in discomfiture at each glaring new Example of mechanical fallowness; Words hung out on clotheslines of manipulated Speech patterns, wherever they could squeeze in- Between the wet, moldy socks and twisted, bedraggled underwear. I am a trained chicken at best, trying to force something out At least partly digestible. As I peck out the sterile notes One by one, on my red toy piano, An automaton digs thru my internal filebanks, the flux of Catapulted words continually bouncing over the chickenwire; Escaping to flap heavily upward towards the trees: And there to look down beady-eyed at the Flopping, feathery decapitated blight. For good reason, I hail from a long line of extinct dinosaurs. Clucking with irritation, I see someone else has Already laid all the good eggs, the golden eggs; I can only scratch out some maggots and hope they hatch.