Old Sox

SLAP them flaps, and scrub them scabs. Boil them owls and scorch them weasels good. Howl at the moon and run away when it come after you. You’re a child of the winter wind and it use to beat you til you squealed. You gave birth, but you tossed the baby in the bio-waste bucket and raised the placenta to be a lawyer. You were so afraid of being struck by lightnin’ that the darknin’ got you instead. A seizure, a shadow, a twisted branch in the snow.

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