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Cousin and sister and brother and gramps and mom, we are falling apart like old underwear; the elastic band is being snacked on by moths who infiltrated our house when we left the window open.
Sister can we no longer wrestle by the bank of the creek where we saw those kids with crawdad hands and nobody would believe us?
Mothers dead, current or yet-to-be, will we let the Yamaguchi- gumi rape Sumatra for timber and rubber, or do the dishes without gloves and share subscriptions with neighbors, even if their dog dookies on our lawn?
Son of he whom to me is great, you said there was a bit of Twain's Finn in each and river still swerves bends and runs;
Brother and brother and sideways brother, we must mend the underwear; we'll do it with humor, in stitches you'll see em If for nothing more than the Britches Museum.
We must spew glue from cheeks, palms and...knees to keep mankind man and kind.
And what of the moths? Shall they be crushed? Or torched. Sprayed with something hot and final.
Nay, lured away by lanterns; around which they play, throwing shadows like...PTERANODAN!