Furrow with your silks and cloths,
Forge silver and gold roughly in radiant days of yore.
The grasshoppers are fighting grins on their cheeks and
John Steinbeck is just fixing to go.

Justification is not waiting here.
I am watching and nodding, my eyes
Are holding their stance. I wish
I could just fly down unto you
as the eagles do
and rip out the skin on your chests
hair and all
and your hearts.
You have made me this, you see;
I am a bloodthirsty flier, with eyes soaked in blood, with extras and soap operas of nudity. I love your anger;
please go-o-o-o-o-o---. On