The Rodes March
Blonds, Brunettes, Redheads and every shade in between
Gather in hoards of thousands upon my sweet home.
They march upon her breasts and lay in her bush
They violate her.
They move in packs, these girls, pretend women.
They drown themselves in fire water and light from the moon.
And they kill their minds with endless babble of penises and Greece.
They abuse her.
Stoop kids sit outside, rain, sleet, or snow in clouds of smoke.
They fill the air with their toxins and throw their buts at her feet.
Their loud voices echo in her heart and shake her limbs.
They defile her.
I watch them, the same kinds of animals every year
They come for freedom and get too much
They run where the wild things are
They loose themselves in her.
They awaken; smells of vomit linger in the air
They look back at the days of violation, abuse, and loss
They try to make amends, to study, to pray to which ever God they wish
But she swallows them and their money; second chances are lost on the young
My sweet home, renewed in the spring
The wild things tamed
No more abuse, violation, and loss
Until the young, wild things march again.