fuck your AR-15

there was a flying fish inside a brown bottle
waiting on the street corner
and the night was cold where i sat.
looking out my window, i saw hard rain come
pissing down like blood.
i earlier heard on the news about the students
running from their Florida class
and yet their story seemed old,
but i'm giving it one more try to pull on my shirt
before someone else gets hurt.
on the radio, sweet Jane sang to a guitar player on a distant stage
while trapped inside her cage:
a puzzled President who kept her there
sent his fleeting thoughts and a insincere prayer,
but his real bag seemed totally empty of care.
in Parkland, the angry children began  to run,
confronting the bastards who were aiming a loaded gun
at the beauty of the noon day sun.
people screamed at the satisfied fat cats
who dressed like robotic beady-eyed rats
scurrying down narrow hallways in the political dark,
their toothy grins resembling a sneaky tiger shark
looking for public places to hide;
they shuffled into polished chambers with hungry mouths and lied:
more children and their parents cried.
there was a flying fish
inside a brown bottle
and it was hard to swallow,
like a bloated promise filled with hollow.