When they show me the inkblots
I like to pretend I don't recognize them.
I think it pisses 'em off, but it's the only way
to get my jollys here.
Not give 'em too much power.
Yeah.
That way they'll never be able to take away my soul.
The one that looks like a vagina?
I tell 'em looks like a butterfly.
I tell 'em they all look like butterflies when
we both know there ain't no butterflies left
on this here earth.
They all flew away through that
big hole in the the North Pole
to be with God in heaven.
One of the inkblots came alive
on the paper while they were testing me,
but I wouldn't say a thing.
I tried to tell 'em once that the prepaid
turns on the t.v. in my room and they hurt me.
I won't be making that same mistake twice.
For breakfast every morning we get powdered eggs.
I wish I knew the bloke who invented powdered eggs.
I'd ask him what they're really made of.
When I lived in Devon I worked on a chicken farm.
They'd keep the lights on night and day to
keep the hens a-layin',
so there's lots and lots of eggs and
no need for make believe eggs.
I slather 'em with ketchup remembering
delicious steaks I use to make with
fried onions before I came here.
And gravy too.
The blood…it never needed a lick a salt for flavoring.
I guess I'll just stay here until
the butterflies metamorphasize and come back home.
Written by Sara Fielder © Apr 2012
Sara Fielder
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/finnan/
