Poem -

The butchers of Parsons Green

There was shock
There was panic
It was not pleasant
In Parsons Green 
The butchers there
Running out of pheasant 

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Lorna

welcome to cosmofunnel

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author
Nine Eleven

Foreign flames fill our shores injecting inhospitable ideology imitating sadness with stories of tragedy penetrating our feeble hearts tricking our meek minds with empty hands yet lying deep within there darkest thoughts, hate resides.
We comfort and hold these hollow men opening doors allowing them in but as the locks click and slide so begins our darkest times for Dormant they wait becoming suburbia's sleeping cells consuming light gripping scripture tight to there hearts preaching foreign scars.
I am aware of such men living within this peaceful land, i have observed there potential for destruction, there clothes emanate ammonia, there skin coarse and tired for they are ripe, ready to inflict pain, ready to die, ready to burn the western sky.
Be vigilante of the vindictive villain's within your vicinity for they harness a virus only visible during volatile volcanic violence.

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