By Angel of Death
{002-Red: Picture 12}
You step all over me.
My tongues are germ infested sidewalks that you use like red carpets to get wherever you need to go. I take your ignorance as an advantage, hoping that one day you'll decide to throw the crepe you just ate into the trash can instead of in my stomach acids. I'm allergic to strawberries and now my face is blue from trying to hold back the puke. As your stupid vehicles tickle my throat, the pink liquid spills out of my mouth. I think you people call it the sky.
I don't know how you got here.
My doctor told me not to eat everything I saw. When I picked you all off a silver platter, I didn't think you'd evolve into monsters. Now there are strange square things stuck to my esophagus and a warm sensation is crawling up my throat. Every time I speak with other cities, they tell me I look like a tree on Christmas day. And then I have to say that you weren't much appreciated gifts. Where's the receipts!
You make me sick.
Little children with grubby hands and mouths that pop gum, cling onto their parents. They are all smiles as they travel through each 'tunnel'. Not aware of the fact that I'm coughing my guts out. Umbrellas fill the air and a loud rumble beckons screams out of the children. Anybody got a Kleenex? Yeah, right. I'll just grab one of those wrappers that's flying around in the air.
Do you ever go to sleep?
I let you live in my stomach and walk along my tongues. I let you build those hideous square things that's been there ever since I was a little town. I even let you poke holes in my face. What other city would let you do that? Well, I suppose they all would but I've been doing this longer than America, so what the hell! And the least you little French speaking, crepe eating, mongrels can do is go to sleep every once in a while. Give my sinuses a break.
