Green Gobs of Family Matter Tortured by All Honest Saint Gertrude

Sometime the sport has to stop,
the game needs to end.
Fog lamps and cylinders of white fluff,
my metalic plush stuffed animal.
Some robots have heart,
at least a brash imitation of one.
Covered guns in a clear all tarp,
draped like studio shades.
We met on the floor,
on green granite tile,
stylized in the pattern “Crown of Thrones”
Two stitch three in a loop,
the bird bath caved from over weight.
To many cooks in the kitchen,
to many hands in the pot.
Horace came after the pilot
politely told the passengers “Were about to crash”
“Gangbusters” read the headlines,
conspiracy theories galore.
I am afraid of the media,
the subtle guidelines in which to abide by.
worse then them,
are the zealots who believe.
Who is kissing who,
in Rodney Tops shop?
Holding hands in syncopated step.
This isn’t news.
Forget the front man,
suck the litigious hand.
Easy to copy,
soon enough to follow.
The dollar bill drips blood,
and snorts cocaine for fun.
It’s not a habit.
Never was an addiction.
Momentary laps of reason,
truth is better then fiction.