A bruising omen beckons
The leaves have fallen from the trees
The colors seep into the soil
That is blanketed with the carcasses of bees
Sculptures made of petrified earwigs
Thoraxes hung by fishing line
Send the children to higher ground
The air smells of turpentine
All the angels are occupied
With tasks easier to complete
It seems we are too much for them
So we hold the hands of beasts
Cradling our faith in a blanket
Made of quills and burlap patch
We nestle on beds of pine cones
We drink water from a moldy tap
Ominous fortunes call to us
With the breaking of every dawn
Someone call the cavalry
There are skeletons dancing on our lawns
Chloroform fills our lungs
Since the day you said goodbye
Nothing good can come of this
There are Pterodactyls in the sky
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