Till the rain runs red

"Rain drops keep falling on my head."
B.J. Thomas

Jim Cantore and Al Roker
ain't the only bald guys
who can have fun
frolicking in the fucking
rain dealing with old man
winter pissing on parades
from Thanksgiving
to Easter with bladder
busting out salvos of
yellow snow and a tirade
of breath so cold,
the sounds of bones
chattering the only timbre
heard on the tundra.

And the old man's
bitch, Mother Nature,
ain't no better as
mankind in rape
mode has stuck so
much diseased dick
up her sweet ass
that she ain't
got no sense
of humor no more,
woman scorned
and all that shit,
hell,  the only tongue
twister this chick
knows is a tornado .

Right wing rhetoric
ignoring omens
while creating
poisons to seed
the storms ravaging
the land of the free
then pointing fingers
saying it ain't me
it's a fallacy
you can't get
knocked up
with sodomy,
so all these children
of the damned
ain't our responsibility.

But beware for
the baddest of asses
don't wear black
leather or sport
Marlboros or swill
whiskey or cruise
the badlands
for butts to beat.

Nor do they wear
pinstripe suits
stuffing patent
leather wallets
with sweatshop
currency while stirring
the blood of babies
in their martinis.

The baddest ass
of all waits behind
cumulus clouds
like a lioness
in the brush.
A wounded
animal bleeding
rain till any reason
for mercy evaporates
with the ignorance
of the masses
leaving nothing
but rotting and bloated
corpses to line
the parched earth.