New mantras yoked around their neck.
Songs of sorrow and embellishment.
Some with smoke filled mouths, twisting through their teeth just like their mothers warned and taught to chatter.
They gurgle and blow,
steamed tops.
Secretly afraid of the iron fist,
Fair weather anarchists.
One day domesticated, but not tonight.
Raging against the machine in the moonlight,
cocksure the sun would never rise.