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.