snow caves to
boot-
in
half moon,
the crunch shakes
crows from
roof-
need leave no
print-
to prove we
went,
or show we
didn’t.
“alright ginger,
send
in
that
master
of madmen”
we’re all ears and
must hear..
“dear beast, who’s
in season?“
dammit he’s
loose
now–
shan’t catch
him
by thinking too
like him,
i smile small
to thank
him..
no
doubt,
we need hear
no more–
“alright ginger,
show him
out.“
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