A Bit of Whimsy By Ronald S Porter

Here in the land of blind dogs and screeching pigs, I lay me down to rest. Where predators prowl and scavengers growl, We snuggle like baby carrion fowl in a squalid, rotting, rancid, reeking nest. Where the death-stench and fat flies fill greenish yellow bruised sad skies and, necrophilia is a spectator sport; We contendly feast on fresh slaughter beast then wrapped in entrails, we dance and cavort. Oh lovely stink! Oh delightful decay! Where air is vile and water is gritty, we make meery sport with mangled dead while you cower, at night, in your bed putting your hope in the walls of your city. Out here we fantasize your horrified eyes and agonized cries, as we watch neath the moon. Lazy and fattened; would your flesh be sweet? Oh how we could feast on your blood and meat. We're planning to come visit your city real soon. I'd wager, the children are quite tender.