Counting on my Fingers

Babboons go home for the evening

Let’s Get Out of Here

My famished soul, hungers, yearns, lingers
Crawling through horrors, terror, real, imagined
Light-blasted sky flooded, illuminates nothing
Offended darkness turns away, offers no succor

Sup with the greedy devil, you’ll go hungry always
Skeletal fingers tightly grasping runcible spoons
The bounty on the plate far beyond your reach
Let go, rejoice, count on your fingers to eat

Ill-mannered, gauche, petty, ignorant fools will say
Ignore them, tightly they continue to clutch, hang on
Their shiny bowls, make staccato taps upon the table
Fingers made and were made long before silver spoons


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