Colonization of Justin Drive

My neighbor is importing kids! Broken arms and ankles are sure to follow. The ragamuffin’s ruckus drowns out the gibbons totally smashing my morning sit. The cars arrived, a funeral procession, each dropping off a hooligan to spoil the day. I was the only soldier left at post; refusing to sulk by hiding in my own home. Determined nothing would move me from my peace. The hollering became so immense it seeped through the cracks of neighborhood doors until peace was an unknown quality. The skateboards with handles littered the lawns, pray mantis’s with long arms reaching. Re-homing sounds like a sound idea until I’m the recipient of all your garish garbage that you call kids. Such a sweet name for these little monsters and the squalor they leave in their wake.