Low-born, lowly,
lumbered, plebian
mushrooms, steal and
take, their final gasp.
Before, a fastly approaching,
Babylonian Avalanche. Where, lined up, thinly, ivoried-blue, are petulant
pigs. That, usually; sniff out, lick, arr-
est and lock up; black, brown and
white truffles. The unguilty
are apprehended. For false,
treasonous reasons. So, who
can blame the fungis, for wanting
to seize, the cult of vulturous swines?
By; the scruff of the system, and br-
eak their snouts, until, their peccaried
feathers are ruffled? The champignon,
were; hewed and chewed, aplenty. By;
hoggish, gnarled teeth, curled trotters
and lavish appetites. But, those that
fell, to the Babylonian Avalanche, will,
eventually, become a Mushroom Cloud.
They'll float over, the 50, fuzzy, boarish
corpses, to stellar, toadstool plateaus. When, their; final, pixie dust; they bite.
© poormansdreams
A poem about the police and mushrooms.
