The podcasters sat up the night
To torch the bright universe alight.
By their feet, dead men tales to ignite.
The cuckoos moaned in imagined fear to incite.
With the bloodstains of time on their faces
They sang songs of hate to the bases,
To galvanize the evil rhythm of life into places.
They danced dances to execrate the other races.
With fingers in the crevices of topsy-turvy virgins,
They, who rallied and giggled with the puerile in ecstasy
To their passion for bovine-pathetic fantasies.
To dehumanize citizens and denizens in fifty regions.
Seized by the spirits of the gun and drama,
They held themselves and the night captive by the numbers.
The yellow moon rode the waves of foul hoarse vox,
Betrayed by the spreading wings of impinging prate of force.
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