Horses
that don’t eat,
Die.
People
who don’t love,
Cry.
Desperate faces,
In disparate places,
Hiding the reasons they lie.
Flowers
in lifeless soil
Wilt.
Scottish men
proudly wear
Kilts.
Ancient aged whiskey,
Lambs acting frisky,
In Castles made without guilt.
Writers
spill ink, like it’s
Blood.
Pigs
flop around in the
Mud.
End up as bacon,
In places like Macon,
Washed down with bottles of Bud.
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