His head is shaved
His tongue flicks on his lips
From the purse in his hand comes
An oft-welcomed gift which
In hindsight
Had I been wise
Would not have been received so willingly
Oh, these birds never stop
They just keep flapping
A thousand putrid wings
Infinitely
What if my skin sloughs off?
What if my tongue curls up?
What will the vangaurd think of me
And my pedigree?
Will they ever climb down?
