When Will the War Reach the Suburbs?

The road is shrouded in fog.
Warriors are gathering in clumps.
Unwanted news is spreading
like refrigerated peanut butter.

Armies of Glitterhounds are marching down
Main Street with banners that read "Greed Bin Gute!"

Thin nobodies gather loose geese.
From around the corner come crumbs.
Suspicious tree bark appears unexpectedly.

Farmers hide in their haystacks.
Bricklayers hide behind their walls.
Tiny grass dwellers prepare a barbecue.

Minstrels surround the embassy.
Crowds of onlookers fiddle-faddle.

Men of all ages report for the draft.
It's really just an open window at the
end of a hallway but they line up anyway.

Out from a thousand thickets come thatch divers,
cabbage claspers and sundry lemon smashers,
all hoping to get their own talk show.

Slats creak under the weight of
ominous pig jockeys.
The sound of doom echoes from a hollow drum.

Underwater minutemen decide their time is up
and release bubbles from openings in their bodies.
The bubbles rise to the surface and spell out
the name of a famous Gothic cathedral in France.