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Oh, sure, you salted cicadas
We scorpions
We expect a yield

We harried hornets to hysterics and a blind hate

We poisoned scorpions w their own eggs

This generation raised among pomegranates must die

The madrasa-mutton, seared,
Swing,
Sleep,
Spin,
On skewers run-through

Hornets bred w scorpion genes,
Raised on scorpion entrails
Hornet father, scorpion mother
Yield a mantis of bother
Guard your daughters
Reef their sails

We shall wipe your brood from the face of your earth
Your tainted brood stained by alphabet, addition, your Apple Watch

We shall excrete your brood
Our haunches down
Our knees bowed
Our eyes screwed
Like any colic mule

We free the cherry trees
Their dread burden of squatters
Crawling outta their corn-cob skins

We shunt them retarded cicadas
Back,
Down,
To end their days
With dying potatoes
With sightless centipedes,
With hair-dressers, and daughters,
Bent on skinnéd knees 

Daughters forced underground like dirty cicadas

Scorpion w cicada all belly-up
Stinging the holy site

Beg for them barnacles
For the keel-hauling thereto

say something nice ... or not

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