"smog" poems
In The Prison Of Winter, No Rise, No Set
orbit nearly closed,
the radio announcer gleefully
chirruping, the twittering fool,
"only ** graves to X off till
spring"
the weight of the prior
the wait of the more
no matter how little
yet to come
too much insufferable
having suffered
multiple life sentences
you snit **** u don't know better,
ha, they don't even run
concurrently
there are no sunsets
in the girding grays
of harsher enough and words that fail me,
are the winners in the
winter of the ****
tests and hunts,
I have successfully
failed
of course I'm wrong you
petulant hobgoblin wringing
nyet from me you'll get no concession,
**** science,
there are no sunsets in the winter
and the sunrises,
short unsweetened,
light-less, less of less,
frigid glaring revealers
of dead trees
and deader
men
maybe in the Rockies,
perhaps the Alps,
wonderlands photoshopped,
pretty lies on the Internet BS posted
where I live,
wear the wear the weary
neath the sweat stink of layers of
unbundled choking hands,
winter's damage
assessed and assessment is
never overdue, payable in
immediacy
heating bills I can't pay,
a job that said no more of you,
unpretty please,
a woman who sorcerer-scarced herself
right freaking black magic quick,
trust me I have certified verified,
me and Nixon,
X's on the kitchen calendar,
there is daylight, there is mighty night,
almighty in long and colorless
and nothing in between,
but the smog stained slush of
smothered life
but definitely
no sunrises and no sunsets
watched all day from the
imprisoning kitchen window
which doubles
as a **** you
mirror
there are no, not any,
you know what,
cannot even say them,
the pipe dreams of better yet,
pipes that have beaten down
me and my
disassociated senses,
signed sealed and now delivered,
from the formerly known as
The Summer Man
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 9:39 AM UTC
Shriveled & shrunken.
Intoxicated & drunken.
Hung over & agitated.
Mild to moderate brain activity.
Common sense & basic reason lacks mental ability.
Bad with money & squanders financial stability.
Passing a psychological mental health evaluation not quite.
Kept in a straight jacket & sedated in isolation they do spit & bite.
They go through everyone's trash day & night.
They panhandle at the street lights.
They have tempers & pick fights.
Nothing they do is legal or right.
Slobs with no jobs.
They lack work ethics.
The sight & stench of them is sick.
They're sad story is lies & tricks.
Not a truth that sticks.
They cuss & their pocked face oozes ****
Their frontal lobe is filled with dust.
About telling your teacher the truth they get homicidal & make a fuss.
They drive a piece of **** car consisting of smog & rust.
Getting arrested for 365 × 3 + 2 counts of child **** is never a bust.
Keep your children away from drunks.
Some drunks get violent, beat you & lock you on a trunk.
Most pedofiles & rapists are drinkers.
Not religious or moral thinkers.
With shingles, hpv virus, ****** & boyles.
Zero morals as hideous as an ugly *** gargoyle.
Enjoy arguing, screams & shouts.
Daily drunk driving & behind the wheel blackouts.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 10:51 PM UTC
i’ve never had feelings for anyone who could be good for me. i’ve never been interested in someone where a good, healthy relationship could’ve resulted, and maybe that’s why i’m so jaded, because everyone i’ve ever liked has just been a distraction or a house on fire— someone i know i shouldn’t be involved with, but i’ll give myself just a few more days to run around frantically with my hands over my eyes, peaking through the cracks between my fingers, searching for things i know i don’t really need, and then i’ll dash out and run down the driveway and the smog will linger for a little while, and the neighbors will complain, and i’ll sit on the curb with my forehead on my knees, holding nothing but intangible regret. next, i’ll either get over it, or obsessively think about him and the ashes smudged on the inside of my eyelids for longer than my sanity. i’ve never really liked someone and been able to daydream about the real possibility of us turning into something greater; of tire swings and painted mailboxes and overgrown, green lawns. it’s always been pretending and fake hope and melodramatic doom. i think it’s messed up my perception of having feelings for someone, because i can never take it seriously— either i know he’s not right for me, or i know the circumstances prohibit the possibility of us. it makes me never want to give anyone a chance (i can’t even see anyone worth chance-giving) because i know how it ends. i don’t like having this closed off heart so early on; i’m too young to be this bitter.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 10:10 PM UTC
Songs of Oregon: No. 1 “Gonna Make You Crazy, That Place”
nuts, crazy peeps
whomever wherever,
regardless of race creed color or gender (did I get ‘em all?)
current state of residence (geo-identified)
a poem - the very same recited,
as a disclaimer, a yellow finger wagging warning:
“Don’t go! If you go, you won’t come back”
now kids, I’m a veteran of foreign travel,
many continents, cold and hot, rivers and seas,
some living, some dead,
some so big they named it Endless,
been to the great cities, Swiss villages,
pyramids, climbed Masada,
danced on grapes (why can’t I recall where)
skied the Alps, trekked the Sinai Desert,
clubbed in Rio, and danced till morn,
on a certain Greek Isle that rhymes with Mickey’s Nose
even been to L.A and San Fran, left poorer
but in sync,
always came home
with my mind decently reshaped
me/ a product of gritty unpretty grime,
streets of normal humans
acting like normal escaped mad persons,
this brutal city island instilled a
layer of fat and smog neath my skin,
a kind of migrating duck-like survival kit,
came with a homing beacon included
the those of you who know me,
perhaps too well, ken we citified islanders
love our beaches (fire hydrants)
cherish our sun dappled blessings
upon on farms (window sill herb gardens)
and sunning settlements (rooftops)
they say our tap water is secretly bottled,
sold in places where the springs purportedly
run crystalline
though we don’t got no pinot, just sweet concord grape,
so sweet, the wine of children and street nodders,
needy for instant sugar highs
so as we new Yorkers proudly
say on our license plates,
prove it or stfup!
so a first hand investigation for which
the taxpayers won’t be charged even a lousy mill,
deemed necessary to put to rest this crazy claiming warning
“Don’t go! If you go, you won’t come back”
guessing must be something in the water and the wine
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 9:00 AM UTC
having the low down blues and going
into a restraunt to eat.
you sit at a table.
the waitress smiles at you.
she's dumpy. her *** is too big.
she radiates kindess and symphaty.
live with her 3 months and a man would no real agony.
o.k., you'll tip her 15 percent.
you order a turkey sandwich and a
beer.
the man at the table across from you
has watery blue eyes and
a head like an elephant.
at a table further down are 3 men
with very tiny heads
and long necks
like ostiches.
they talk loudly of land development.
why, you think, did I ever come
in here when I have the low-down
blues?
then the the waitress comes back eith the sandwich
and she asks you if there will be anything
else?
snd you tell her, no no, this will be
fine.
then somebody behind you laughs.
it's a cork laugh filled with sand and
broken glass.
you begin eating the sandwhich.
it's something.
it's a minor, difficult,
sensible action
like composing a popular song
to make a 14-year old
weep.
you order another beer.
jesus,look at that guy
his hands hang down almost to his knees and he's
whistling.
well, time to get out.
pivk up the bill.
tip.
go to the register.
pay.
pick up a toothpick.
go out the door.
your car is still there.
and there are 3 men with heads
and necks
like ostriches all getting into one
car.
they each have a toothpick and now
they are talking about women.
they drive away first
they drive away fast.
they're best i guess.
it's an unberably hot day.
there's a first-stage smog alert.
all the birds and plants are dead
or dying.
you start the engine.
11.1k
loneliness has defined
this old soul.
Bittersweet melody
has tuned my way of
living.
I don't know how much
my heart could stand
the weight and wait
for that simple moment,
that single spark
to feel alive
and stop breathing
the ashen smog of reality.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 10:48 AM UTC
Round about is deep black darkness,
Darker than the blackest night,
Whispering deep 'n dreadful murmurs.
Bird dropped dead in midflight.
Blind and weeping, lifeless attle,
What you see is your own soul,
Burnt and weary from the battle.
Disenchanted from its goal.
In the ash, a spark she smoulders,
Crackling, rasping, wounded warrior,
Briars squeeze her neck and shoulders,
Suffocating in smog-fill'd air.
Deep within stagnating waters,
Crystal-clear elixir tear,
Movement rippling, life astir,
Phoenix rises from the slaughter.
Still she rises, Golden Daughter,
Fears no longer yonder fright,
Strength within from those who fought Her,
Blackest night turned brightest light.
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 7:04 AM UTC
If I were doing my Laundry I'd wash my ***** Iran
I'd throw in my United States, and pour on the Ivory Soap, scrub up Africa, put all the birds and elephants back in the jungle,
I'd wash the Amazon river and clean the oily Carib & Gulf of Mexico,
Rub that smog off the North Pole, wipe up all the pipelines in Alaska,
Rub a dub dub for Rocky Flats and Los Alamos,
Flush that sparkly Cesium out of Love Canal
Rinse down the Acid Rain over the Parthenon & Sphinx, Drain Sludge out of the Mediterranean basin & make it azure again,
Put some blueing back into the sky over the Rhine, bleach the little Clouds so snow return white as snow,
Cleanse the Hudson Thames & Neckar, Drain the Suds out of Lake Erie
Then I'd throw big Asia in one giant Load & wash out the blood & Agent Orange,
Dump the whole mess of Russia and China in the wringer, squeeze out the tattletail Gray of U.S. Central American police state,
& put the planet in the drier & let it sit 20 minutes or an Aeon
till it came out clean.
Allen Ginsberg
Boulder, 26 April, 1980
.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 5:51 AM UTC
Our mortal sins and fatal flaws,
our selfishness for "the better cause".
Our greed, our envy and lust,
our desire for acceptance, our ignorant trust.
Our broken promises and tainted lies,
the human race, the smog filled skies.
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 3:54 PM UTC
Yank myself out of bed
Peel the film of sleep from 'round my head
It's 4:00 AM
And all the world is dead.
It's 4:00 AM and all the world is dead.
From the streets every man has fled.
But in hours it again shall be
Brimming with potential; energy set free.
I assemble my appearance.
Staring into the mirror,
I say to myself: "One last time.
"One final tour."
The door is open, before it I stand
To face morning's faint chill
Surrounded by paling blue.
There! The first bird's trill.
The air is sweet
And free of smog.
The faintest fog
Is draped on the trees.
The empty street beckons
And freely I obey.
I have things I need to do
Before the commencement of the day.
I pass the playground on the corner,
Where I wasted time as a child.
Where many a battle was fought
And we had adventures in the wild.
Past the playground and to my left
There is the river bank
Where I went fishing with my father
And my friends and I made our mothers mad:
Where we lit our little fires
And we had our first drinks.
Where we shared our first joint
And came to talk and think.
Our school is down the way.
We all can safely say
It's the place where we first learned
Classes and books have less to say than the real world.
We became:
Artists.
Athletes.
Academics.
Our achievements
Are scrawled upon
The stone walls
That lined that same river.
A little further on,
And there's the little store
Where I kissed my first fleeting love
Just outside the door.
I keep walking, I keep walking,
Until I reach the shore.
I put my back against a rock
And rest on that sandy floor.
The life that I'll soon be leaving
Lies behind me asleep
While I watch the sun lazily rise
Over the mysterious, unexplored deep.
I built myself in this town
And it built me as well.
But I cannot stay much longer:
In a few hours I will bid it farewell.
Will I ever make it back?
Will I ever return
To trace the scrawlings by the riverbank
With bare fingers full of nostalgia?
Nothing at all is sure.
Therefore I must take this last chance
To make my final tour.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 8:25 AM UTC
The sidewalk crow
Picking at the stone
Like the streets were still his home
Nibbling at this mess
Of concrete flesh
Gasping and rasping
To catch a smog-less breath
Black thing shimmering
In the sweltering city heat
No worms to eat
Because he can’t crack
That grey concrete
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
As I light up
This last blonde cigarette,
I think of music,
Of boats sailing through smoke,
Smog.
Stars that fall in the ocean,
Cosmonauts drifting through space,
Their ship destroyed
Like a mother who has given birth.
Memories of photographs.
I think of her
As usual.
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 11:03 PM UTC
Doves Flying,
Crying,
Dying,
In City Smog,
White Feathers Stained From Human Garbage,
Stained From Society's Words,
White Angels Turned Into Common Rock Doves,
Tears Rolling Down Their Cheeks,
Because They Know They're Lossing Themselves,
Doves Crying,
On The Statue Of Liberty,
Because They Know Freedom Isn't Free,
And They Know,
No One Is Truly Accepted,
Humans Ruthless,
Society Clueless,
Doves Released At Weddings Cry,
Because They Understand That,
The Bride And The Groom Will Both Be,
Heartbroken,
Doves Cry In The Streets,
And In The Sky's,
Wondering Why,
The World Took A Turn For The Worst
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 8:54 AM UTC
A cloud of smoke and fog so toxic
They had to give it a name.
Out here, it coils around signs
And slinks up the height of buses:
Keen and watchful, like a python,
Squeezing the life from
My lungs. Heavy with ash
And tar from the cigarettes.
The fumes snake upwards,
Swirling in fog, smog,
Ashen clouds. There's a sight
For sore minds.
Nov 27, 2018
Nov 27, 2018 at 5:08 AM UTC
Packed like sardines
inside a jeepney—
Too full,
with a jeepney strike going on.
Rushing,
mother and child ride along.
Greasy, ***** malnourished…
The woman holds a can—
a makeshift drum.
Little boy hands out envelopes,
he looks like he's 3 years old,
he's most likely 6.
Woman beats her drum,
nobody listens
chatter drowning out the rhythm…
Invisible ears to go with
invisible envelopes
His head touches my legs,
dissipating heat—
an indicator of how long
he's been under the sun and smog
The thought chills me…
He stares at my sister's shopping bags
with searing eyes…
Windows that I can’t bear to look into,
afraid to see my reflection of clouded guilt and frustration
I shake my head, no food to share
but my hands reach out to his,
to give him some money.
My sister remembers a bottle of iced tea,
and hands it to him.
He has a hard time opening it,
and asks for help from the school girls…
Invisible again.
I reach out and get the bottle from him
Temporary refreshment
for a body that is parched,
for a soul who is thirsty for so much more.
I cannot help but gulp in guilty air.
He sits on the aisle,
savoring the tea
as his mother thumps on the can.
The little boy retrieves envelopes, all empty—
as hollow as the sound of the beating drum.
What do you do,
what can you do?
The jeepney stops.
They alight from it...
The mother looks back
and says, "Salamat."
It goes straight to my heart.
Her eyes move me most—
one eye is cloudy, grayed out,
perhaps a manifestation
of the storms in her life?
That single word seared through me,
and I felt how much she meant it…
Her thank you
made me want to give so much more,
to call out to her and give whatever I had at the moment
but they are gone...
Lost in a crowd of faceless people,
and I myself want to get lost,
hide my face in shame…
What can you do?
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 1:06 AM UTC
skyscraper man on seattle time
looms in the corner of swan lake and fry
untouchable denim untouchable blueblack plaid jacket
he's put together with clothespins
he's put together with stipends
he's crammed between taxi cab book ends
skyscraper man on seattle time
stoic as the jet engines roar by
all his friends are magazines all his friends currentbrief
he's got a little future
he's got a few dimes
he's got no father to call out the lies
skyscraper man on seattle time
watches smog children kick ***** on concrete
vulnerable under trees writes his novels in purpleink
he's married once before
he's read crucifixion lore
he's returned his money to the store
skyscraper man on seattle time
looking through spectacles of ***** and brine
the rain falls hard the breeze sweet on the leaves
he's emptying the soul of modern rock n' roll
he's emptying the tray of ashed thought
he's emptying the bank account cold
skyscraper man on seattle time
sheds crinkled skinmemory like the cicada
a twin-sized deathbed deathbed in apt. 203
he's nothing.
he's ever.
he's happened.
skyscraper man on seattle time
carbon copied and eternal as saltwater as rust
invisible and tapping at the runrain window
he's nothing.
he's ever.
he's happened.
skyscraper man on seattle time
climbs himself to the cosmos lightheaded perfection
ethereal visions of fullbloom love and legacy with measure
he's nothing.
he's ever.
he's happened.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 11:04 AM UTC
Where do you see yourself in a year?
Still living here -
A tactile skyline atop pillars of smoke
Heavy with guilt
And the craftsmanship of a generation of men
To whom Earth is a rock, immortal
Untouched by the bouts of the smog which ascend
To hold up their forges?
Where that which is green must also be man-made
And an old plant-pot
On an old window-sill
Is the closest to what was here before? Is it a facsimile?
Where your throat hurts,
Chemicals an ersatz flowing stream
Of purest water -
And why is rainfall the freshest you can drink?
You haven’t always been here.
Where were you before? Was it green
Or blue, or any other colour
Besides this abiding grey? Perhaps
There were rainbows and colours
And sunlight, unfiltered by smog
Or dust. Warm, purposeful.
Her fragility charmed you.
Because our Earth is not immortal. A wanderer
In space, motherly, who are we to defile her?
A species of smoke and tar turning her soft hues sour
Colours unknown to nature
Like a drop of arsenic in a stream flowing through rocks?
Do you see yourself living
In a fortress, tumultuous to its steel bones
Each day burrowing deeper into her body,
Claiming her for its own, and ruining her at the same time?
So you think about your opportunity.
This life which fills her air, pulsing and vibrant,
To restore the purity we are missing -
Because Human and Nature are as one,
Invention is necessary but we are losing our time,
Virescent leaves brushing in the wind,
Our friends are loving, laughing, living
And we realise now that we are able to do so much better.
Or does none of that matter, somehow?
We make money to spend on plastic.
We are born, we work, we breathe, we die,
But we are still yet to run out of time
So where do you see yourself in a year?
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 4:46 AM UTC
Growing up there was chaos reshaping the love;
it was the cycle that gave us our dynamic.
A single thing acted like a looming shadow as it circled our warm home.
It would **** them one by one into its cold smog.
I grew used to its presence;
making me numb to its touch.
I had to settle the rest of their souls by ridding them of the darkness.
I was young but I understood pain;
I saw it in their eyes,
heard it behind a smile,
and felt it with the lingering touch -
longing to be comforted.
Eventually, the shadow turns to light.
The pain dissolved,
but I still remember every situation I made right -
the memories of the darkness still live inside me.
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 12:51 PM UTC
The end of Second Summer's day
When rain and snow have ceased to be
Will see the end of our delay
And mark the death of our decree.
*Elsewhere the despondent souls
Of smoke-stacks rise up from the coals...*
As plastic melts beneath the glare
And long the Dream was dashed ashore,
Then will smog-clouds light the air
And cast the fires across the moor.
*... Then, far beyond, the wand'ring mirth
Will strike the land, and scorch the Earth...*
Until the sky is raised in flame
We'll walk the trail of frail regrets,
And once the world glows hot with shame
Shame will then our end beget.
*... And so our doing will blaze the sky
By MMXXVII*.
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 5:32 PM UTC
*Stranded in a car,
Parking lot castaway,
Babylonian sunset,
A star sleeping on regret,
The cold street lights now casting spells,
Down upon a pale face with these eyes painted,
With their shadows*
The rain soldiers are marching in,
They'll crown me with their arrows,
I am the queen of the orphans,
A city for a throne,
And heartless chest for a scepter,
It is rumored that there was a cool of the day,
But it is not found here,
If birds had songs then,
They choke and spit out cruel laughter now,
Therefore the gulls migrated to die on asphalt,
To collect the filth I leave upon the earth,
I have sticky fingers on me you see,
Attached to soggy gloves
**The rats keep eating at my bed,
The rats keep eating at my bed,
The rats keep eating at my bed,**
I cannot sleep tonight,
**The rats keep eating at my bed,
But feed the rabbits,
Feed the rabbits,
Feed the rabbits,
Feed the rabbits**,
The Commercialized Army is pressing in,
Following the systematic skein of procedure,
**Knit the net,
Produce,
Consume,
Expire,
Produce,
Consume,
Expire,
Knit the net,
Catch me,
Catch me,
Catch me,
Knit the net**
I shouldn't be here
Where can I find it?
I shouldn't be here
Where can I find it?
Will I stop myself?
I shouldn't be here
Where can I find it?
Will I stop myself?
Time moves too slow
I shouldn't be here,
Where can I find it?
Will I stop myself?
Time moves too slow
I shouldn't be-
And The Sun Goes
Down,
In,
My,
Brown,
Eyes,
Twilight fixation,
The orange star sleeps in the smog,
My mind in its fog,
Here comes the pale ghost eye,
Peaking through his veil,
Midnight fixation,
Staring down,
On my brown eye island
Where I washed ashore
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 12:44 AM UTC
Life and its shade
canvased by god
God made it beautiful
But we are
adding shades of greys and black
enveloping the sky
turning fog into smog
Putting solute
in water bodies
that are not dispersible
making it turbid
mislaying its transparency
water is not pure anymore
Deforestation
converting the forest
into the barren land
beautiful landscapes are mechanized
by man
buildings and more building
watching stars sounds bookish
nature is losing its charm
Emotions are blowing over
relationships changing
accepting changes
changing our own self
mirrors are showing
someone else image
and asking you
who you are?
Mar 10, 2011
Mar 10, 2011 at 12:50 AM UTC
Peter Pan once took me home
To Neverland
I met everyone
From Captain Hook and Mr. Smee
To Tiger Lily and Tinkerbell
For as long as I could
I stayed with the Lost Boys
But I soon had enough
Of the homesickness
Swelling within
So I left Neverland
But once I returned
I saw that the home I had
Was gone
And the world I knew
Was hidden deep in smog
And metal
"Time passes quick on Neverland,"
Peter told me
"Home is gone,"
Then we flew back to Neverland
Where children came
But never left
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 12:40 AM UTC
All of the Gnomes from around the globe
Just sneezed their very last sneeze
They've had enough of this allergy stuff
And from the garden they're taking their leave
They packed up their bags, donned their bonnet's and caps
Left in the cover of night
Said goodbye to the trees along with the birds and the bees
And headed out for the big city life
No one had a clue from which wind the Gnomes blew
It was Wa-La they were suddenly there
From Bankers to Lawyers to Tele-marketer callers
They infiltrated every career
Soon they were drinking like fountains as the bills started mounting
With the pressures of the ride to the top
Pills became an everyday need to stay awake and fall asleep
Not sure when this madness will stop
On top of it all they started to cough from the smog
And wondered which one was the worst
The garden allergies or this black lung disease
Either way the Gnomes felt mankind's curse
So they turned in their suits and their ill gotten loot
And took a trip back to the suberbs
Now in the garden they smile cause they know all the while
Yes...it could be a lot worse
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 9:15 PM UTC
your trash filled sidewalks
your smog filled air
and morning traffic
I could not bear
your streets that crawl
with poverty
that engage your people
in robbery
your marketplace
called 'monument'
a paradise
I've always dreamt
your night sky stars
I cannot see
as clouds of smoke
keep blocking me
your reckless drivers
your petty thieves
your nearest supplier
comes down at eve
your gangsters stronger
than authority
and the victim cries
so hopelessly
your city lights
soon will be gone
as your electric bill
fills up to tons
your ambitious leaders
up to now, they wonder
what is the best
that they could offer?
O Manila, O Manila
I keep longing for thee
true is thy beauty
in irony
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 10:36 AM UTC
Homage Kenneth Koch
If I were doing my Laundry I'd wash my ***** Iran
I'd throw in my United States, and pour on the Ivory Soap,
scrub up Africa, put all the birds and elephants back in
the jungle,
I'd wash the Amazon river and clean the oily Carib & Gulf of Mexico,
Rub that smog off the North Pole, wipe up all the pipelines in Alaska,
Rub a dub dub for Rocky Flats and Los Alamos, Flush that sparkly
Cesium out of Love Canal
Rinse down the Acid Rain over the Parthenon & Sphinx, Drain the Sludge
out of the Mediterranean basin & make it azure again,
Put some blueing back into the sky over the Rhine, bleach the little
Clouds so snow return white as snow,
Cleanse the Hudson Thames & Neckar, Drain the Suds out of Lake Erie
Then I'd throw big Asia in one giant Load & wash out the blood &
Agent Orange,
Dump the whole mess of Russia and China in the wringer, squeeze out
the tattletail Gray of U.S. Central American police state,
& put the planet in the drier & let it sit 20 minutes or an
Aeon till it came out clean
4.7k