the beautiful limbs of the dead

go right into fueling you

they tunnel a hole through you

they sew the land into you

they grow up out out of you

all the people losing homes

the developments at home

go right into fueling you

they burrow like versions of you

they sew up what’s keeping you

they grow like investments of you

the private limbs of the dead

the private arms of the dead

pour out like the fuel of you

they burrow back into you

their seeds are the stories you

cover up quick

and their arms wave like the privates of homes

the private homes wave in you

the private fuel behaves in you

the burrowed mole is afraid

like you its eyes are sewn up

you grow like investments

I’m exhausted from driving


keep my private limbs out of your head

keep your cool damage out of my bed

don’t look now it’s the dead it’s the dead

they’re carumphing & glumphing & totally red

& I’m under the weather can you stay here instead

our love is the color of sockets

plug for the funding of dreams

bones take up too much RAM

I’m sick and sneezing unmanned planes

the more I more back into me

the hotter and hotter I get

I’m like a pinup do it quick

that’s it that’s it that’s it that’s it

all the people losing dead

and the beautiful limbs of their homes

 

NOTE:

DRONE is part of an installment of ballads (& other form

“mimics”) being written for each MQ-1 Predator and MQ-9

Reaper currently in US military circulation. Each text need

remain in circulation only as long as its assigned machine does;

please remove this page once MQ-9B Reaper 06-4016 has been

destroyed and/or removed from combat function.

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