Expect the
open mouth of
a beast with
fangs
To bite with
contempt: doves
with wings
Hanging in
the bowers
of trees;
Sea-spun
showers
cover all
needs.
Lift with
fury,
the jumping
beast yearns
the next
meal to be taken
with action
he spurns.
He has no
patience;
He does not
want to wait.
He is
hungry. Tired.
No hope for
him…or the light meal he hates.
Obsession
rules him.
Every day he
hates.
From birth
to midlife
He's chased
everything;
Fought all
he'd take.
He's lived
young;
He'll die
old.
Every day is
grand.
But in the
hate
From day to
day
Seems as if
the latter days
Are treated
as his last.
He'll go
home tired.
He'll wake
up hungry.
He'll
continue to mark the time.
He'll hunt
dinner in the forest at night
And he'll
dine on seagull and brine.
Such is the
life of fangs at sea.
He'll be
lost for his eternity.
Dead or
dying he's got his needs.
Continuing
this tradition makes him... happy.
ISA
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