The Lunar Apocalypse

 I was mooning on the swooned, to Ass-smart your books and tunes; 

the streets run rampant of the ants- who didn't die on the elephant-Hill.

Let the red lines run away in shame, and wash their colors in Eau de Cologne; 

the dead breathing their last rites, to be wronged in their tombs, for the 

alienated jutsu, they previously intertwined. the prey of columns; 

the lumen novum set in stone, to be screetching, for not giving homage to 

Homer, running for the Lordeal real. As the King rides the donkey hard. 

Who didn't love the Animal Farmers selling the pigs some booze? 

The laws rewrote themselves to teach themselves A.I and going Transhumanoid. 

As the intellect eluded itself, to be demagogery and debaucher in one go. 

Ready - set - BlowJob and the friends scorning your defeat are for Free real-tastes!

As The Devil and God are playing Canasta, and Baccara to find out your virtues. 

How much would you loose your sanity and intencity, to cite your stance in sores of Blues?

How far venture, until the oven, who you left burning, is calling you back, lest some hen pisses?