QuickTurtle Books®

Discontent

The motor runs
On high
Octane Marx,
It spits
Rivets
Of discontent,
It’s like the pet
That bites his master.

Its disciples
Don’t know how
They came to hate,
They just do
And piss on themselves
And say of the smell,
It’s management.

The grumbles grow
Worse and worst
They eat
Inside the skull
Until there’s nothing
But the shell
And a crab
Instead of man.

.
Richard Rensberry, author at QuickTurtle Books®