Maybe it's time to say good-bye,
To bid farewell to the last ten thousand years,
And seal the fate of the lizard kings,
Terrible and tyrannically they ruled the planet,
With a scaled toe and consequently faulted the parallel lines of comprehension,
As terrible otherworldly forces slandered the good name of forgotten fables,
Where worker ants are angered by briskly lazy grasshoppers,
Enjoying the live long day of non-labor on an imagined railway,
In a drowned rail yard where simplistic little pieces are scattered upon microscopic tombstones,
And long ago lost spirits pray to the couple pieces of stitched wood,
To make peace on a volcanic plain of impromptu improvisation,
While sickle cells break under the steam pressure of a barreling locomotive,
On a cool summer day where the sun does not shine enough,
To make the sweat glands pour out the promise of a cool down sensation,
Over the back of the poor migrant worker,
Who only wants to make it through to the day he kisses,
His little girls good night
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