When our musty dog died
We buried him next to a rustic clone.
I will not speak of the sadness we endured crushing his fangs
Nor of the joy seeing his infinite burial.
Ouch, I will not speak of the happiness we partook in drifting you ashore
To the cushioned clouds lining our elated hearts.
Nor how we raised our sour chests bragging about our new-found day.
Staunchly, we pride grooming you.
But today, our memories are nothing but an umbra of tenderness
Ai, I will speak of the sadness in our cloudy terrain
And of how disappointed we are with your infertility.
We thought we accrued a bouncing baby girl
Not knowing that you’re but a docile razorback.
Fridays have returned, marred by the replanting of the old dog’s guards
The same kooks that drowned our fragile mast.
Ai, I will speak about the dork we delivered
That delights in the same rancid system.
Our memories today are nothing but shadows of pain
And our parole, a pyrrhic orgasm of a virgin.
The memories of our pain from the ruffian are refreshed
From the draconian laws to the ruthless rambles,
For fridays returned with endless deforestations
And daily, we awake watching our wispy peace melt like a chameleon
With our limpid legs, not sure where to strike
But to keep on singing our song of despair.