Lord of the Humans

Paper Plane Pilots

I ridicule the bronze boy
Who sits on the Skid Row bench
Tainted fingers of motor oil
Stench of August sweet
Dribbles under his Adam’s apple
His throat muscles down
A can of Budweiser

I fly making donuts around his head
Then silently pound
On his brown flesh
Cleverly hide in the depths
Of his arm hairs
The fool waddles and thinks
He’s exempt of my wrath

The naive human
Doubts my wings of majesty
I play a game
Rock to each of his sunburned arms

The mule has limited reach
Yet, he prides himself as ruler of
Concrete palace of sewage
He forgets that my offspring will be
The ones feeding on his steak
The demon smacks his own arms
In a pathetic plea to end me

He fears this
Both shoulders ooze at the buzz
That I mockingly whisper at his earlobes

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