Folks drunk as poets all sound the same

With a mouth full of angst and a head full of maggots, they drink plenty as the rivers dry up. Bearing too much in the way of the fallen, flow constricts and washes through the fermentation of expiration and resignation.

Run all they like, the end of the line comes somewhere in the middle of the marathon for a few every now and then. And it's a vengeful force not of any nature known which constantly fluctuates the definition. From one point to another one day, another point entirely for the next. There is no race guide to follow when the track itself grows and moves with each passing wind.

Singers of songs swing on the side lines, hanging over as they look down into the pits of their stomachs, swollen with tape worm. Festering bile and hatred, they only chant and hum to odes with whistling harmonies.

As the merry warblers applaud their own pitiful state, folks with pens take up in arms and script a heavy curse to befall that of the wretched side. Evening out the score in their own little way.

Nothing will fold or fall today. Nothing will fall or fold tomorrow. Nothing will ever sound the same when the tongues are cut out from the lame.