Down on the Rabbit Farm

the American dream is dying,

like some ancient half-baked myth,

taking one last breath,

it lies there waiting for the end,

still we continue on,

traveling down broken, empty, highways,

on the way to bigger pastures,

afraid of the consequences,

but never looking back;

not even once;

on the road to Wyoming,

with the fiery rabbit princess,

we ran into a band of hairy, drunk, Greek sailors;

how could she resist?

leaving me there, high and dry,

somewhere in Iowa,

with visions of wide open spaces,

and endless rabbit farms dancing in my head;

still it lives on;

“the fever burns bright,

on this stagnate moonless night,

providing the worlds only light,

in a land of limited breathless sight;”

“who is it for?”

she screams aloud,

standing naked and cold,

shivering uncontrollably in the morning mist,

surrounded by mighty armies dressed in black;

but not a sound echoes back.

.

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