A Squalid Liquid (Lemonade from the Children of Savannah)

Tonight, upon the tattered seam you sew,
lie the cochlea of my nervous ears
among the cornucopia death bears,
concealed in the gift offered to so few.

You who are the victims of the ice age,
you whose thirsty lips meet the empty bowl,
be not afraid to sacrifice your fowl
and become exiled from the mirage.

The morning comes as the vagabonds pull
fruit from the mouth of a hungry demon.
The sun becomes a layer of lemon,
and the devil takes a bite of my skull.
Let my trembling hands muffle my laughter
as I am being led to the slaughter.