The ping pong pachyderm the pseudo suicide with the butter knife
the ripe kite reeling kneeling on grapes to make wine
The sing song sassafras wrapped up in the trapped gas mask
the green beret he wore to war grimy and deranged
he returned with PTSD up to his knees a blank stare and a wad of cash.
The newspapers said it was all a sham blasted in group texts
pressurized in fountains of bloodhounds
sitting at the bar when no one was around
talking to the mirrors on the blank walls
talking to his war bride
about his role in the genocide.