Brains for Breakfast

Because I forgot my password,

please don’t call me an ass-turd.

Maybe I ain’t no Shakespeare

or Hanky Schrader (makes beer).

And God bless Henry Kissinger;

he is the devil’s messenger.

That fat old swollen reptile’s

a tumor that’s erectile.

But that’s the way it goes here;

the worst winds always blow fear.

And don’t feel bad if you live in a place

where bombs fall every day.

The winner of the human race–

your grave is here to stay!

As zombies gobble up what’s left

and shit dead babies out,

the earth itself will be bereft,

the ocean drained of clout.

Yet I’m determined to endure

and have a real nice day.

To suffering I am inured

as I enjoy decay.

I’m proud to be a part of our

great species obsolete,

look forward to robotic flowers

and gardens of concrete.

Like bonsai trees and broccoli,

and forests losing stature,

Earth’s hard-won hysterectomy–

dear widow, Mother Nature.

Replete with death’s fecundity,

you’ll have to grow immune or I’ll

help out a bit and do my part

by staging my own funeral.

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