The fragrant aroma of napalm;
Here, in the country of
Narcissists and queens;
A demographic claimed
And arrogance perceived as fact,
With little migrant lulls between
Complacency and comprehension.
Right as the bell cracks,
I repair my bicycle and come,
Deep into her woods, where
Foxes have dens, and birds have nests;
Here I play “The Cricket,” on guitar,
Piecewise but fluently stroking out
The segments of the song.