Yellow swords dipped in blood.

Commodity draws the young close

and salts their edgy words.

No potato famine.

Just processed potentates

raising voices.

Used to be the pub

where commoners draw

conclusions.

Now it is fountain drinks

and talks of Ja Ja Binks.

Thoughts pressed between

finger and thumb.

Pushed against check and gum.

A pile of pick-up sticks

like wood on a bon fire.

No teen is an island.

No poetry protection.

Say what you say

until the fry in the bottom

is pulled from peer pressure.