Under the Rug

Good trees make good fruit.

There’s a rug in my living room,

It hides all my secrets beneath

Knitted webs of frivolous fiber

Clinging to the floor, weighted

Tassels like fingers claw at wood

Trying to escape the horrors

Lying beneath, but never able

With opposite ends tugging,

Those twisted fibrous fingers

Pull rebellious rugs into place.

Never pull it asunder, you won’t

Like what you find beneath,

It’ll be 3 stamps, a tree branch

And a man I’ve buried below

Down in the hollow where

Nobody goes, deep in the roots

Where a body lies to my woes

Telling the world I’m something

I’m not, so just leave it alone,

Never pull that rug asunder,

You won’t like what you find

There under, and if you do

You’d best beware, prepare

Yourself for strange affairs

If you pull those knitted ropes,

I won’t be there to help you cope

I’ll be down there, buried beneath

A rotting corpse of a man who sleeps

With false teeth and false everything

Feeding the tree that grows above.

So just sit down, tell me your mood

We’ll leave what’s under the rug

Between the tree and her fruit.

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