ENTRY:  Handlebar Blonde


Moon Flower,

Lunar paradise.

Blooming petal crushed

in his iron vice.

World, Wrestling, Federation?

More like the tick of our

Great nation’s desecration.

We cherish and hold

the depravity of the bold

above the tender, dear,

lines of nature that are so near.

Look above, bright,

That reflection

Of interstellar light.

No, we don’t care.

Flip the channel;

Ya' hear?

Flowers are queer.