Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Bushpig in the Corn Field

Run, run, run, 
For hungry hands with stones
Chase you, and tires squeal 
To chew you in tread.

Rocks thrown at your ribs
You run the fence, 
Apologizing to flee.
But the gate is closed, 
"He could get back in."
Past barred exit you fly back and forth, 
It will not be opened,
Until for bushes you make, 
A sure sign you'd stay and disrupt.

Aiming for the cherry in your mouth
Wheels fork you to the ground.
A bullet rings through your head; 
The dinner bell.
None of those men will take satisfaction
In your flesh. You are for the cheetahs. 
I am not a man of lust, 
But if I was I would starve.

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