On the tip of another forgotten night I hear crickets screeching their hell-bound calls
Walls, words, and breath constrict me as those grunts, his groans, reach me with effort
Shirt tucked in but slightly frayed at the collar, he pulled out a string with his fat thumb
Rum floating around in his bottle of coca-cola and racing down as he took another swig
Big gulps and giant calls down his throat which burned with the acerbic kick of his chosen nectar
Vector merely from pain to the destruction of lowly human casualties to their chosen home of eradication
Nation of no bravery and no solace of a drunken palate that has turned his face a perfect blank
Sank down to his knees and called it medicine, called it a liquid cure and told me to try it.