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B is for Buzzard under my hat,
my brain meaty and raw.
His talons cling like puppet strings.
His rabid teeth chew and gnaw.

Ye old Buzzard, nothing warm,
just a cold sentinel of death.
Not like the life-giving stork —
impervious to the stench of your breath.

Your buzzard form like a swarm of flies.
The maggots mirror your childhood.
The terror of your bulky brig —
weeping under my wing - your no good.

The psychiatrist dissects my thoughts.
One by one he pulls the seething strings,
whilst the buzzard glares at the Rorschach.
Irritated by the smell of ink and pendulum swing,

the suicidal creature flees to the window, succumbs.
The gift of happiness and flamingos, pink,
from my mailbox to the farthest edge.
Quite merry, maybe a bit wild, I sip a drink

of cherry cordial and admire the pink rabbits*
spiraling out of control but perfectly neat,
in row after row of planted fluorescence.
F is for Flamingo - now my crazy world’s complete.

Contest: Buzzards and Flamingos
Sponsor: Anthony Slausin
Not a true story

*as rabbits multiply

Copyright © | Year Posted 2019

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