Ode to Mockingbirds, Somehow

Offer no more incense, Victor, to Jupiter on high,
and contemplate your button-down
existence as the rocks fall surely like cats for cream -

it is 76 now. The sky is bruised like you and Atlantis
landed successfully, the last of an era. Though rocks and rain
threaten us both, I began to think
there was some skill involved in being a girl. Still,

few events are better attested than the lassies
twirling their moustaches at failing mice.
But in turn, in Los Angeles, they also
give out laurels to dancing artillerymen dipped in blood.

Today chocolate milk is sweet and not spicy, like how
we’ll end up in the end: docile, forgettable offerings displayed to please
the whims of soldiers, gods and kings - cats’ cream.