Sick Cicada Ada’s Dream
Sick Cicada Ada said
I had a weird one once again
We visited a gallery
Where hotdog carts were serving
Severed pricks of billionaires
Slipped in hotdog buns and slapped
With mustard, kraut, or relish for a buck, but
Those there thought that was too much
They didn’t sell a thing
And ended up tossing them all
From the window, into the Hudson
Which was flooding from Hurricane Zeke
Lower Manhattan was lost to the harbor
The turnpike in Jersey was all underwater
Along with the chemical factories
And concomitant concerns
As thirty million refugees marched
North to the rust belt and west
Filling once-abandoned towns
And, what’s more, every zoo around
Was flooded, too, allowing the tigers
And kangaroos and seals to swim
To relative freedom as further south
It flooded the White House — which,
Aside from the garbage-thick river,
was empty
Its occupants were missing
There was speculation as to where
They’d flown, but little was known
Some had even conjectured that
A hotdog or two from the show
had been sliced off from those billionaires
That’s some dream,
Said Rick the Cricket
Sick Cicada Ada agreed,
Perhaps it’s even prophecy
