The thing about we giants is,
We're obsessed with flies.
Seeing over mountains, leaping castle walls, digging mud huts with big-knuckled mitts,
Crushing granite, scratching triceps, smoking hay, shoving elephants,
Doing pullups on moat bridges, breathing through our mouths, cursing, eating charred cattle,
Drinking sea water, fornicating with terrible female versions of ourselves,
Fashioning clubs out of petrified oaks, urinating on the pastor's wagon,
It all stops,
When a fly buzzes by.
That perfect pest, dopplering corner to corner,
Taking brutal advantage of the stereo effect.
How can I stomp the villagers,
With that galling, irksome, winged demon
in my ear?
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