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1 
cracks open a cola, loads up for the hunt.
In camo pajamas with Cheeto-stained pride,
he waddles to freedom with insulin by his side.
"Land of the free," he proclaims through a burp,
as bacon-fried dreams from his arteries slurp.
A Glock in one hand, a Twinkie in tow,
his patriot heart beats dangerously slow.
He pledges allegiance to burgers and fries,
with ketchup-stained flags waving under the skies.
His temple, a Walmart—his scripture, the sale,
his gospel is shouted through Wi-Fi and bail.
Doctors have begged him, "Please give it a rest,"
but he shot them a look and three rounds in the vest.
“Don’t tread on me!” he wheezes with flair,
as he rides his mobility scooter up into the air.
you wore a cape of crumpets and a monocle of ham.
Your voice was like beans on toast at dawn—
warm, confusing, and slightly forlorn.
sizzling sparks in a marmalade brain.
You whispered sweet nothings to my elbow’s ghost,
while I tangoed with shadows of cinnamon toast.
black as anger in an eyeball.
I wish I was sat on
the end of that jut where
the beach forgot to wash away.