Rim rock women sit roosting on the edge of gray ledges
sharing rumors generously on crusts of rocks dead,
with layers of crud abed. Wonder … where is their head?
Screeching for the last tasty tidbit, rockers teeter
on a forbidden chasm of words that maim, lame, destroy.
On carnivorous lips they rock
as winged beasts, flock
in unison together
predatory for one feather.
Rim rock women, with a grayish blue hue, deny that it’s wrong
to devour another, piecemeal, in word or in song.
Who dares care if one wears briefs or a skimpy thong?
Their lives would be better spent discussing life’s virtues,
voluntarily helping others less fortunate.
To the rim of the rock flock
all together,
saliva oozing, flooding,
predatory for one feather.
Rim rock women disembowel everything else in life,
don’t appreciate beauty and sacrifices made
by our country folks who dwell in foreign countries fell, splayed.
Their tongues a flapping, chawing, jawing on a crust, hard,
without thinking of mistakes quaked by a tongue too sharp.