A Crepuscule For Jakey Snake

 
 
 
Swank. Wrank. Frank
                                  disallowed from the
                                      prissy playground
               of this year's
                               ignominieux Awards.
 
Better to run off with feathers in pocket, rather (than) the weight
of coal or gold or lead or diamonds or concrete or a ton of mindShit.
 
So travel lightly wit no-thing in hand, and No Thing in head.
They've filled enough shallow graves to make a guillotine happy,
from glistening blade, rotten rope, and dysfunctional trapdoor
that them heads roll through (head-hole).
The rabble love the bounce of the head, the crimson squirt of
                                         fluides corporels vitaux,
and will party mad-gladly once the eviscerations have been dutifully
                                                   executed,
            and the cooking fire glows in the fading crepuscule.
 
                            We should have said Good Night
                                       much sooner than this.
 
 
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