Reformed Meat

As a cockeyed dear brat
He liked to flee
From enchantment,

He would guzzle
On the edges of joy

And remove the keenness
From every moment

Until just the gristle shined.

Exhausted in the backyard
With his gang of made-up friends,

All pristine garbed
And lost in a vague sky,

He would sit mildly morose
Most mornings,

Trapped in a hometown gloom.

Whispering songs of distaste
And wandering dust clouds,

On the very cusp of fantasy,

All bitter and broken,
Dry lipped and Catholic,

He was bird song to the tired,

A single peg
On an old washing line,

A moulded meat on the side
Waiting for signs

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