Unscratched Itch
Folks of the suburbs sting thy heart
Tongues of mosquitos suck thy soul
Stories leak no finish nor start
The histamine I can’t control
Spreads out from cranium to my toe.
All lips kiss thy cheek for one goal.
Pictures they sow just come and go
If I did not give two sharp pins
Yet, I do. Must go with the flow
Threw all their sins into the bins
Kicked a sly snitch right in the ditch
Yet he’s still a flashback that spins
Hence, whether I’d think of the pitch
Would always be an unscratched itch.
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