By: Constance Woodring

Every day we hear your name,
you always sound the same.
You got war in your nose.
It doesn’t matter where you buy your clothes.

You’re a shot in the dark,
waiting to make your mark.
We can do without your kind.
We’ll call you, if you don’t mind.

If you had your way,
you would ruin this town.
No time to shut down.
You’re a sigh of the times.
You’re losing your mind.