The bride

slithered out

with the snake oil man

— the Moody one,

who swore it’s all okay

he’s got the cure for the cure,

an answer to it,

no question about it,

no turn left unstoned,

a little vial on his necklace,

a silver tongue on his red lips,

the rudder of venom

steering the sick ship

off course (of course)

—— and she’s happy

she’s fun and games

she’s sinking, child

she’s flailing her arms

he’s holding her under

standing proud on her head

— wishing, more than wishing,

that the millstone anchor

would just go away