Another One Bites The Dust

From garret to penthouse
As the crow flies,
Is a peacock flutter.
But what of the interstice of reality?
Vast gorges
Where Georges in newly acquired
Iron-grey armor
Leap and charge
Accounts, holding on high the
Shield of credibility.
And you, Noble Gallant,
Who, will by knighthood,
Forsake your bedraggled leviathans
And your pure, but hardly virgin maiden.
Scuttle the defense of innocent puppet peasants,
Drown them arm over ass in a footlocker tomb,
Without so much as a
Davy Jones, “see you, mates”

Fly to your tinsel town, fly.
But that winged creature
Is a 747 not an eagle.