Suburbia

Suburbia has trees that stretch
up toward the cotton candy sky;
where bad parents play games of catch
with kids who do nothing but lie.
This place seems beautiful at first,
but soon our sinful souls will burst

Up toward the cotton candy sky
the sinners raise their shaky hands.
Broken-winged birds who long to fly
squashed by malicious marching bands.
But a football field of dead birds
beats a church full of empty words.

Where bad parents play games of catch
to mask their misgivings with fun.
A batch of cookies made from scratch
poisoned with “Don’t tell anyone.”
Wind chimes whisper, kids never learn,
and rows of picket fences burn.

With kids who do nothing but lie
each suburban parent is blessed.
And yet, when a shooter arrives
the kids still send a goodbye text.
When bad blood stains the classroom floor
suburban kids can lie no more.

This place seems beautiful at first
as colorful leaves fall like dreams.
But some residents dive headfirst
into behind the curtain schemes.
Suicidal squirrels stain streets red
and girls who say “No” wind up dead.

But soon our sinful souls will burst,
sick from the perpetual pain.
Our loss and lies can’t be reversed;
let picket fences’ ashes rain.
Broken-winged birds, follow the map
out of suburbia’s cruel trap.