Flying Monkeys
How banal is heartbreak
yet the masses belly up to the bar
to imbibe the bitter brew by the gallon
fermented from the pounds of flesh
she's cut away with her pen
that she keeps preserved
in jars of formaldehyde
Drunk with disdain
her potion resurrecting their pain
her patrons grab the pitchforks
she keeps sharpened by the door
Silent she watches them stumble out
smiling as she counts the bills in the till
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