At the beginning of the wild rumpus

I made the sounds;
heavy on the drumbeats
suitable for monsters
suitable for mothers of sons
released into the wild.

Things of rage, intemperate, frantic
for a target; escaped from cultivation

to an undomesticated landscape

seeking nothing in particular,

and the world in general.

Laid at their feet,
a hot bowl of chicken soup;
prepared for kings
by those who love them best of all.

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