Here in the court of King January,
may his rain come down like
songbirds dead on the wing,
we hail unsubtle streets.

Or, the sky does.

(start walking)

Like children strapped to back
this flatfoot stork goes on
with canvas wings weighed down

fly, lady, fly

to deliver them faster.
From mouths of babes
come cannon balls,
come three-car-wrecks
and dancehalls tearing down.
These twins cry out
'we are in recession it is
all the fault of
political party held in general distaste
so vote green'.
And, you can buy your Ford cheap
from some guy named Phil,
if you act now.
Little girls choked up
in plastic wrap
(pink today,
blue Sundays only)
wave those wide foam hands

go, hometeam, go

and cheer; the
generic highschool mascot of choice
has saved the day.
We all get tired of the Big Names,
you know;
who wouldn't love a new
local life?
These home deliveries come
careless tossed;
no gentle knock the grey bird
spits instead and children bounce
on broken steps.
Your inbox is filled with flyers,

King January reigns,
and pisses lakes on sunken streets.
The stork must slog through anyway,
if it would free its wings.

(still walking)

At least, until tomorrow.