When it ate Buckwheat Dural
Nobody gave it much thought
But then it decided
A medium-sized midwestern city might taste even better
"Don't panic,"
the one-armed anchorwoman broadcast throughout the land,
"It has no lungs."
But its rage was so bitter as to be anaerobic in nature
In a single, squishy leap
Its lift from a gargantuan flopping motion
Expressing a foul malodorous secretion
it seeks the path of least resistance
a region wide
From Hudson Bay
To the city by the lake
Its chosen shortcut for its appointment with Armegeddon
The accordion screaming
Those damned steel drums!
Half the buildings crumble under the pelting of a rhythmic assault
The arpeggio twanging scraping your tympanic membranes
Clearly, it's come to party
and to kill us all
Its zippy melodies
echoing in your ears
as you die
The bash goes on 'til you are no more no more no more
Curse all the ugly fish ever hurled from the gut of the sea
Curse a city renowned for festival
Curse the Pharoah's Curse
Even though it has nothing to do with this catastrophe
Now the Marc Plaza points skyward
Through the giant cuttlefish
A stinky, angry, musically prodigious cuttlefish
But luckily a dead cuttlefish
It is dead
We, too, are dead
For its dying act
Squished us all
And worse, really messed up my hair.
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