fang

sandpaper tongues.



saliva hangs,
from blanched white fangs,
and drips anticipation for the feast.
weary dogs
spy fattened hogs,
basking in the sun just to the east.

will the pigs sprout their wings and fly into the sky?
will the dogs sprint all-out to the hogs and make sure they all die?

the feast is one of clarity.
he who survives is king.
the wild dogs with diamond teeth,
gather then they sing.

howl to the moon.
howl to the hills.
the pack of fangs stained slightly red
eat til they've had their fill.

we're not too far off.
we're a little alike.
all us humans are dogs.
oh, the pigs have their plight.

they run, bless their little hooves,
but just not fast enough.
the dogs will eat and get their fill,
though the bones may be jagged and rough.