Think
You Got it Bad?
Picture the scramble of turtle hatchlings
down a beach, in a tasty batter of yoke,
sticky pinball flippers going for broke,
trying to beat the crabs and skirling
gulls to the punch. It’s like a machine-gun
making a lazy sweep, with lottsa time
to reload. Gotta love a lunch that climbs
right in your mouth, fresh takeaway that
runs
straight down the hole; magnetically sucked
like a car wreck to the sky. Their’s not to
reason
why. They got no axe to grind, those broken
little metronomes who don’t make the cut.
Not everyone’s designed to find the water,
and someone’s gotta fill the butcher’s
order.
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