Look Ma, It's Snowing

In the Hour of the Vulture, slept,
Face, hair uncombed, unshaved, unkempt
Wisdom, at shallow graves, unkept
Stood over the tombs and wept
The Matriarchs stand strong and tall
Stalwarts clothed in bloviations
It isn't hailing hail, you know,
It's hailing accusations

Feathered jackals' laser keyboards
Reinvent interpretations
Salivate over feasts to come
Devour conversations

The universe is in the drink
Lady Barber on the blink
Everything is out of sync
The bouffants all go undisplayed
The carnival has been delayed
The pompous pomp, the proud parade
It's not raining hearts and diamonds, folks
It's raining clubs and spades

Feathered jackals' laser keyboards
Reinvent interpretations
Salivate over feasts to come
Devour conversations

Nobility, the King of Bats
Falls at the feet of St. Ignats
Don't bother with your poofy hats
You need not ever be afraid
But stay inside the old chapeau
There isn't anywhere to go
It isn't snowing snow, you know,
It's snowing razor blades

 © John Kennan 3-16-19