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