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;

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 world’s 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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