Light weight, black glossy, perfection
You must hold such a weapon with confidence
Slender black arrows with green feathers
Bundled in the fine homemade black leather quiver
The silver steel tips made to ****
Sunlight playing peak a boo
With the shadows all around you
The ancient trees look down upon you
The wind picks up and gently plays with your hair
You breathe in the familiar smell
Of the ancient forest you call home
You haven't caught an a-wi in days
What will the hungry little ones do?
You see a flash of movement and you freeze
Draw a single arrow from the quiver on your back
Without a sound you take your position
Silently with practiced ease you aim and fire
You hear the death cry of the animal you have shot
Swiftly you run to were the cry came
There lays the plumpest most beautiful a-wi you have seen in moons
Thanking the a-wi with the words you were taught as a child
"Thank you dear sister/brother for giving your life so that my family could continue to live theirs"
With the sacred whisper you end the a-wi's pain with a quick slice from your blade
Smiling and whispering you’re thanks to the Great Spirit
You run as fast as you can to get the villages warrior braves
You are small but you are part of the Tsa-la-gi
Therefore you are never alone

Floptin sits outside
the cafe on the mall

and watches the three
plump dames sitting nearby

one slightly plumper
than the others

and as he stares
it reminds him

of his first lady
the one who showed him

the ropes of sexuality
who ****** away

his innocence one night
and he recalls

how liberated
he felt back then

how her plump flesh
flapped against him

and the sound was like
nothing he had heard before

and she said to him
sweet boy

you’re a man now
you can tell your friends

you have made the grade
and now sitting at the cafe

on the mall
watching the plump dames

feeding her mouths
their chins moving

their eyes excited
their voices booming

and their laughter
****** and loud

and looking at
the plumpest dame

how her hair
was pulled back

so and so
he smiles to himself

and wonders how
she’d make him feel

with her flesh flapping
and her eyes aglow.

The weekend frolic troupe has come in.
The bells ring and their heels click:
the Adventist clergyman is about to get sick.

Pour the drink down the sink, let these fishes have a go at their dying wishes.

The weekend frolic troupe readies
to sweat out their usual rancid panic soup.
Dendrite clogged with salty water,
fanged grinning, and a gait that will not falter.

They are on the prowl
for the plumpest provincial fowl.
So hide, my sister
and fight, my brother.
End these sabbatical howls.