Metallic Dialect of a Dying Garden

Metallic Dialect of a Dying Garden

Knackered deckers, deep in shit
Liquid like liquor, made from
Robust grease, as gargoyles grade
Our didactic capabilities
And silver sounding salt, smelling like semen
If semen smelt like a slanted tainted turd,
If that turd had on a wig and talked in hyperbole
And was a cheeto

Oh no, not that, not the tweeting twat
Swat away that birdie, he smells like
Utter embarrassment
But beyond him is this

Metallic Dialect of a Dying Garden

Where the silver swings around
Ringing in cylinder drums and
Humming a moan that sounds
Like a drone with a phone that loaned
His drug addled brother some money for a home

But blood is thinner than needles
And now he have no heart
Nor does the garden have a lark

Emptiness fills the ground with
Heavy footsteps and a pungent flavor
That reminds us all that tomorrow
Is just like today, but we just don’t
Know it yet

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