Scratch, Scratch, Scratch, over the post-wood patch
Black blood spewed out into familiar shapes,
Ranted recited, and recognized by the few
Who think they know what they're saying.
Good Lord, look upon this little horde
of drinkers, singers, dancers and mothers.
See them talk amongst themselves and others
following the footsteps of ducks and otters.
Who knows what is being said,
Assuming that it's even being read.
This is getting tedious on the up and up.
Now please, shut the fuck up.