Such a long backbone...
no one is going to fast talk them into a compromise.
Let's talk about the economy of fangs.
will do nicely, thank you.
No hands means no handshakes, no bro pats.
A snake just waits
without ceremony, until you state your damn business.
Snakes don't go to Sandals,
they don't cruise the Mediterranean, hobnobbing with assholes.
They just sun themselves on the nearest rock.
No power suit.
Shed that skin, start over again,
brighter, better, and every inch of it comes from within.
I want to talk about the kindness of snakes.
They kill with an embrace.
They can unhinge their jaws, a practice many people should adopt.
In short, I love snakes.
I keep them in my hair, graceful charmers of every hue.
Don't turn away; love them too.
And look at me when I'm talking to you.
This poem is for Fireblossom Friday, where I have asked people to hand me a great big pack of lies. The truth is, I don't like snakes at all, they give me the creeps.