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A Censored Society
A flock of starlings formed a cloud,
so many beating wings, loud as *****;
the rushing sound of angry cows bunched into a tense herd.
My elbow lined up at the bar,
tight crowded drinkers slaking thirst,
it whispered on my left man's jacket;
he said “Sorry” as he turned away,
to his back jacket patch I whispered "*****",
some company called Fence Ford.
Fifteen feet from me at least in the breakfast aisle,
a mommy inspected cereal,
as I approached she said “Sorry”, moving quick,
timid as a broken bent bird,
“Sorry for what?” I asked myself,
“I mean really...what the *****?”
I came to gates of pearly white,
“What is this place?”, I asked in fear
to monstrous large dented, blurred gates;
“Oh, no! This appointment I could miss;
Hell, I'd be happy to be ***** late!”
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