It was a lumpy texture, green,
bloated and extra fat.
It smelled of boggy vegetation
rotting, the dank of a mildewed mat.
You'd need a mask to touch it,
the effluvium of our scars.
Our nation bleeds miasma through
its media and its stars.
Decadent highlights and circuses
amuse the fairy folk
who breathe the corruptive reek
but are too naive to choke.
Waving banners the hue of blood
and scarred like a spider's eyes.
They cheer when the rockets fall
and gloat when someone dies.
It's less a stretch of reason
to say I'm a furry mermaid
than to hope the din of bloodlust
through dialogue will be staid.