Gangrene is my valley.
The moon’s a Roquefort blue.
The sun doesn’t shine; it staggers.
The earth’s a d.t. cesspool.
The rivers of my valley,
Silt filled and sewage choked,
Seep and ooze is sluggish morass
Spenserian dragons roam.
Baudelairean blooms tinkle off key tunes.
Chrome plated is my cottage,
A cancerously crumbly chrome,
On corporate chaos postulated,
Perpetuated by the drone.
Birds? Bees? Trees?
None of these.
The birds eat the bees,
The trees the birds.
The earth the trees.
The orchid alone can call this home.
My valley,
A cankerous coffin exuding death from its putrescent pores.

*An estimated two billion people—one-third of the Earth’s population—try to live on $2 or less per day. Some 20,000 die every day, because they cannot afford to live, while we live in luxury.