plucked hairs from golden geese, hen pecking mothers, fighting,
the air is crisp with lightning, lockets that depict our once fair ancestors,
hanging nonchalant, bragging genetics, like hen pecking mothers,
fighting to be at the front, sitting tall and proud, worshipping,
some sprat or another, each mum as gleeful as the other,
with their glasses emptied after supper, thin silver chains,
cold against collarbones, then out into the rain,
to tear up at the sight of something simple once again.
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