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Complaints like fetid crabapples
rotting at the bottom of the barrel,
soured, spoiled, small in their fury,
fit for feeding goats, composting and
brewing doomwine of such potency
it buffs the enamel lining clean off
your teeth; its juices make you seethe,
it gives your soul cataracts and makes
your claws soft. If you find one
there are hundreds. They threaten
their surroundings even as a paste
smushed underfoot; plug thine ears
lest ye be swayed by its alluring caw,
beware the dissonant drip of the achewater
from the lip of the bucket. It'll fool your
simian brain into thinking it's sweet.
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