Don't blame me for bad poetry this evening. I know it's bad and it's okay. Just skip this one and hope the next time is better. 

They're at it again, those squawking ravens.
I think a squirrel stole their eggs, or tormented their babies.
They're at it again with loud shrieks of indignation!
If only the world were fair... to a crow it means life or death,
to the human beings it means a red car or a black one.

I'm changing it up a bit, or so I'd like to think:
10:30pm and it's my bedtime.
I'm dressed to go out dancing but instead I'll find my way between the sheets with only my memories of  your arms around me for comfort.
I want to be HAD by the Divine.
I want to be chewed by God and spit back out–
I'll take ABC Shinay any day over this half-brained, self-sabotaging, 25-year-old suit.

Goodnight.
Time to write but there's no more strings of wobbly words coming out of this one tonight.
So waddya say chickies?
Shall we meet in our dreams and go dancing for a while before those blasted crows start again?