Death Song of the Possum
I've seen your type before. You get a free ride. You come into the valley, you take what you want, use it up, destroy it, and then move on to the next valley. You come and cut down the trees, then you put in lawns and landscaping, and you call it beautiful. When I look at your lawns I don't see beauty. All I see is cleared land. Your young will never know what this valley used to look like.
I am a scavenger. I feast upon the dead. I hope to feast upon you before this is up. The rising circle of Black Vultures I see in the distance is my Star of Bethlehem. It leads me to what I want. Maybe it will lead me to you. Maybe you died. Maybe you were talking into your electronic box while you were driving and you skided your environment destroying chariot into a ditch. I hope you are dead. I hope I can creep upon your body when night falls, and that the Crows and the Vultures have left something for me. Oh, may my back be heavy with young then.
Someday my dear young will be big enough to hang from their own tails and they will leave my back. Their future is uncertain. Like as not they'll go under your wheels. Your people are the caliphs of lameness. Yes, the chariots of the caliphs of lameness are upon us. You don't have time for us. You strike us down with a great slaughter.
Our only hope is that someday a time will come when all your ventures will fail you like the miscarriage of a woman, and the boxes where you live will collapse, and the juice that runs your chariots will be gone. May your industries be stricken with a great scourge. May your women lay down with your brothers, and your enemies. I hope your crops wither and blow down. May your livestock perish from off the surface of the earth. I'll hang from a tree while the floods come and crack your parking lots in half, dump your chariots into the river. May your wood rot, your metal rust. Bring on the funerals. I would like to attend. Let the vultures roost on your lampshades while the papers pile up in your driveway.
