The gods' champeen, Perseus retired a Gorgon
for the will to power, to purchase, to own,
o'r gorgeous Medusa, who lived in a hollow.
With resolute gall, oh he'd have us all swallow
a parthenogenetic'ly virgin birth
to cover his own tenacitus girth
or recite "There once were three ladies from Perth..."
Percy [from perthein, “waste, ravage, destroy”]
incanting his auto-divinity,
decapitates leaderless society,
twixt bosom and throat, with a nip & he bellers:
"Girls should be girls cause boys will be fellers!".
The practice of blood-lust has no native function
nor bearing on farming before extreme unction,
except to feed "free" folk (as locketed pris'ners)
lies t' absolve guilt from its holy practitioners.
Handle with caution, 'plies even for pigs.
When rhyme don't come easy, sing as a jig.
A bazillion times hotter than fresh chickenshit,
blood ain't good manuer for a farmer's tool kit.
The so-called "blood sacrifice", told to the gathering,
(read silent to hide over-length of the quatrain),
as the first female farmer's most sacre-red offering
is nonsense, bogus and quite unreliable:
even cold cow turds compost for a while
for a growing vegetable to find 'at all palatable'.
Discharged menstrual leakage, (no thrill for a thriller):
used to be known as 'potential seed killer' –
no aspiring father'd be seen no-wheres near,
and though bits there and here may well keep away deer,
but the oder is hella attractive, it's clear,
to the family dog or a big-tooth predator.
A praetor can make quite a mess of things
along with the wasps well dispos-ed for stings.
Only a city-boy would dare to deduce
that the women in menses would call for a truce
if the boys went to war and brought home their own blood
so the crops could grow big for the sedent'ry brood
from the blood of war victims to cover the crops,
what's more under cover's the push for more cops,
to oversee strangers & kids in a show
and this sort of work makes the gardens to grow.
Not sunshine and water and tending with care,
the point is to introduce want, dearth and scare.
All holes in a head should be filled with red ochre
if one's to avoid the dreadly black ogre,
hailing hellos 'cross iron-city's domain,
ironicities banal, mundane and profane,
like nuked top rawmen ooze fuel from their plane.
calling it "swell, japanese acquisine".
For rural development and feeding the needy?
Fie! All just game for politically greedy.
One up and one down, no communist plot;
secretion's eufemist for blood and for snot.
I'd bow and I'd scrape and I'd take off my hat,
if ever a farmgirl could swallow all that,
(like taboo is for social cohesion or glue
or only in marriage it's holy to screw)
which the experts on civilised hist'ry suggest,
so's not to in-sully, but I'm only in gest.
And as Johaan Huizinga announced so implicitly,
a threat against any pre-planned objectivity,
word-play's the proof against segmented time –
"If it ain't very funny, why should it rhyme?"
