Fuck Mumford and Sons
There are butchers
crawling up the street;
they were once living
in dank holes
that we covered
with amendments,
with shirts, ties, and pant
suits,
and just a thin layer of soil.
We planted seeds.
And we talked so much
the spittle made them grow.
But they could hear
when we lost
our
bite.
And so they pulled
at the roots,
tore the fabric
and ignored the language
after we misplaced
it's electricity.
And as the first one of us went
lip-to-lip
with a butcher,
we lead with a quiver
as they unfurled
in a wave of knives and torches.
First published in CLASH, 2017