and after the hiss of the flame thrower
the odor of burnt greens rises to my nostrils,
yes, me, the weedimator, the one who leans
over towering weeds, a delicate purple
purse casually thrown over my shoulder,
yes, I have destroyed this city of weeds,
they shrivel into black, never to rise again.
Scorched earth against a noble enemy.
their neighbors will rise in protest
and my torch will scald them to the
earth, I will hear their shrieks echo
against brick walls.
(wow, such violence, kind of scary!)