I’ve seen anthills of all kinds.
Small, patchwork mounds.
Mid-sized, perfectly round.
To prove that I’ve seen anthills of all kinds,
I went after the large ones.
The big ones with all the participants tightly wound.
Turned out, I hadn’t seen anthills of all kinds.
These were glowing with light.
Run by big males with bright crowns,
Standing and sustaining their servers on shaking grounds.
Rhetoric and rambling still roars throughout their roads.
Hysteria and hindsight have no thresholds now.
They forget food and forage for gold in forsaken lands.
I suppose it’s cooler to call them hounds.
Then I found out that there were more anthills of all kinds.
Those where orange air stuffed particles of feces down your throat,
Until you would choke.
Those, whose ants lay mutilated, amputated, hungry, and broke.
Those, whose hills crumbled from every cough.
Those, whose queens were rumbled by every joke.
I went and visited there and sat a long while.
Now, I know anthills of all kinds.
I guess I can say that I have some style.