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The Sun Is Not Yellow It's Chicken
Where have all the Cocoa Mountains gone?
The red berry batches that were bound to the snow,
The silence and din found under Her umbrella
With white chocolate airplanes that hid all we know.
The chicken ripe ashes of moon cashew shoe beams
And Little McLittle found bundled in treachery
Imagination so dull, His buttons created wet dreams.
But listen in Child, to the humanist glow,
Of Missy O' Parker and her Russian Roulette wheel
That tells us the truth of the infamous Ol' Joe.
We hide from our freedom
And perch on our pride
But we're left with the question:
Which one of us will die?