Buffalo Spit

They run the muffled buffalo dance on a plain of razor blade grass, carving themselves up roast beef style, slice by agonizing slice into your delicatessen dreams. Men in white aprons scoop up the massacre, wrap it in waxen paper, overprice it with grease pencils and sell it to an unwitting and soon to be mad as cows public. You watch this from the distance sitting behind the button and a bag of heavily salted and lard cooked chips and no they are not buffalo chips. It occurs to you that the world was a better place when everything slithered and spit and that now they talk too and this is more than you can bear. You place one index finger on the button and the other you point accusingly at the massacre bellow and then you push and no one even remembers your name…