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The rain doesn’t fall; literally it drops
from the sky. Not in buckets,
rather it is being poured
in a deluge of wind driven
piss filled chamber pots.
It is as if some giant heavenly
operated turbine of piteousness
is determined to drown out
our collective mouths
with a sterile wash of rectitude…
Where once grew a varied garden;
now the fields yield only unmarried scorn.
Where once there was a rebirth of ideas;
an abortionist mentality of censure occurs.
Expurgating the sexually mutated, deemed
anachronisms of deviates and polishing them
into an acceptable form of literature
more suited for the mass appeal of eunuch Lemmus.
Baths been drawn; babies squeaky clean….
2008 © TS
Ted Sheridan
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