Don’t Touch The Roses, They’re Poisonous You Fool.

Sad yet sexy shivers
from a little lady on the street corner,
named Wendy.
She’s as breezy as last week
and chooses not to speak.
Her hair’s dyed pink,
and waves with the wind;
her attitude is black,
like her dress
and her cat named Jack.
They stumble out of the milk bar
with dilated pupils;
her thumbs protruding
through the holes in her sleeves,
his tail is bobbed, his whiskers grey.
They have spent the past few days
going door to door
trading fudge for saltine crackers,
and getting high off all the salt.
What Wendy doesn’t know
is our city needs her tonight;
because the looming takeover
of robot octopi
can only be warded off by her yellow eye.
Down this unlit alley
Wendy is confronted by her fate,
as she proceeds to save
the butter coated human race.
Wendy stares at the moon
and begs for a chunk of blue cheese.
She battles the robot mollusks
with a coat hanger sword
and a trash can lid shield.
Days pass into weeks,
and minutes into seconds;
Wendy the champion of solitude
conquers the unknown world
with the written word
and rescues us all from impending doom.


P.S. Without Wendy we wouldn’t have Wednesdays were we could drink lattes and smoke hash, so if you ever are to meet her, take the time to say thanks.

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