“Is that you Chatty Cathy?”
aproned Mrs. Cleaver calls.
“No! It’s Ruse the Muse.”
echoes thru echo chamber
mirror shiny upon the wall
come calling never did i when
the bridal dream of flying phalli
buzzing everywhere pay loaded
the groomal dream of hoary teeth devouring
it was corrupt priestly class that got us here
it is eyes those who have to see will take us home
where the heart is, where the neighbor
meets neighbor and wants to live in peace
all ideologues are on the table
anger is no proof of right
if we really want the fence to come down
the country be not divided and fall
some pet logs end up on the fire
rules to live by without a fence
of necessity will thusly be…
“Oh stop with the imagining!”
i would say i’m solly but but
but thaat’s the road out of any
quagmire.