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By: Anonymous

 

some blackbirds  always into the heart of it as the crow flies

some blackbirds since, still, no doves fly here

some blackbirds bite the hand that never fed, that ever just clipped their wings and beat the blackest holes into their hearts

some blackbirds; no pie in the sky, no pecking master

some blackbirds still bashed, still proud as peacocks, each bruise a sarcoma’s ghost of a trickle down holocaust

some blackbirds still black as panthers

some blackbirds born crows with cravings more raven; some born ravens growing into crows

some blackbirds still burning as witches, still in the shadow cast by the cock of the walk

some blackbirds still suspect device

some blackbirds rained on a some king’s parade,  crashing thru windows of a corporate blank stare

some blackbirds  rained on some king’s parade; a black body radiation gone red in a road flare raid left one less limo for the silver spoon fed

some blackbirds rained on some king’s parade; sometimes anti-social, always anti-fascist : a sad frog never becomes a prince when kissed with a fist

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