Holy heavens, Little Chicken, validate
my ticket to the cemetery resurrection section,
fulfill my gibberish wish list with
purpose and pleasure and peace and pleasant people
as we waddle together through your prophesy:
the decline and fall of the sky reign empire
that never fell—now how will we rise
above our dancing on or under fire?
We breathe our feathered skin to swallow death,
ear-ached pain of lies, can’t find the king;
the foxy burning ozone becomes
tiny eggshell floaters hopefully
reappearing in our nextime.
Umbrella safe for now, I’m Locky Cocky.