The Sun Is Not Yellow It's Chicken

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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?





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