Pulling pulchritude from pistols,
his eyes widen and redden
what they chance upon.
He was a pontoon captain
in capital letters, fettered to freedom
like a bike to a bike rack.
We’d always try to wrack his brain.
Then one day a drain pipe opened
and that was it.
The song he’d been hiding
finally spewed forth into
the consciousness of the skalds.
In scalding tones, they sung
of our latent vegetable dreams.
His ears dropped out.
All he hears now are screams.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 