Kittywoof wasn’t always this smelly,
It didn’t a’happn all at once neither.
And really, it’s hard t’even blame someone.
Which to choose that hasn't toyed me ferder needs?
A bullfrog, a wolf, a quack, a rat, a cat, a snake, or spider?
Oh I got anger inside this Pumpkinhead, dats true,
You know how many other pumpkins out there too?
Lotsa them, and they heads ben smashed in fierce,
It be those good seeds inside- fruit’n seeds, ya see.
And Breeds, well, they love em as a special exotic meal at one time o’year,
Der was an old tradition they said, way way back, offering a pumpkin head.
Happen’d decades ago, treat’n dem pumpkins like strangely special treats.
Now, I think they thought it was inclusive hav’n a pumpkin to eat at the table,
But they kinda used a pumpkin parade as an excuse to forget other animals,
And that kept driving up de’market value on my tawny Twist- and vinery too.
I certainly gots to feel’n more fruity and shiny,
See’n my baked face show’n up fancy places,
Yet, I knew der was sumth’n funny happ’n too,Â
Started smelling all over dis Kittywoof Kingdom.
Sometime after dem Breed’s fancy feast’n,
Folks began drying out dem pumpkin seeds,
Started little collections and trade’n as hobby.
And dey gots to real value’n by a quick time,
Some creatures coerce value outta anything.
So Pumpkins was first a dressy table fronting,Â
And then, to a stink’n rat, innards of currency.
And well, you know how a Slick-Fingered Rat Pack operates;
Always edging a coin'ed market to quickest seedy endings.
So dis dumb Pumpkinhead became strangely valuable,
Not fors my vining body needing it, but smash’n for seeds.
It's what makes me so nervous ya see, that was time ago,
And it's only ben gett’n worse with that stinker Rottenseed.
Why, dat sweaty lip Fur Pepe ben knocking on pumpkinhead doors,
Telling’m to stop fruit’n, or do’n it in defined patches way from others.
Now, thats a funny thing to say to a seed popp’n Pumpkinhead,
I don’t even realize they dropping most time, giv’n away for free,
And in dis age of currency seed, means you be rich following me.
But Pigeonrats just gotta have dat full seed-o-head consumpt’n,
Utterwise, they wants ya in a monocrop’d patch being productive.
And its dem who’ve been putt’n over-value on my fruit’n free ways,
Whether its as a Breed’s feasting, or a raty seed smashing exchange,
Feels like dey setting a trap for me, cornered, turn’n me into sumtin else,
Putt’n such value on my fruity needs, hope’n I sprout bountiful for der need.
And all da while, not offering wild animals things to meet their basic needs.
Naw, I’m just a dumb Pumpkinhead, but I feels when an oven’s be’n warmed,
Tan’t just Kittywoof either, it’s everywhere, an sum places much, much worse,Â
Dey went from feasting to coining, to prison patch’n, and then only smashing.
And dats the growing stink- fast a’bake’n pumpkin treats,
Or smashed in pumpkin heads dat be rott’n at your feet!
But it's hard for Kittywoof’s haunting nighttime creatures to know,
Ta’feel da burn of daylight working with humble animals in need.
I tell’s ya, its scary to walk a’bout as your strange pumpkinself,Â
Specially when you’ve got dis oddly carved, seed-spit’n mouth.
Des animals damn hungry, so a walking pumpkin might please,
Whether as a pippin on-course, or smashed-in golden currency.
Oh yes, well, you know I grew up in a cult…
I think that's why I recognize members easily.
You see, when chatting with a cult member,Â
You think it’s all just a normal conversation,
Could be about the weather or your family,
But underneath their routine speaking line,
Is another language talking, a motivation,Â
A coded message delivered right to you.
And cults operate first in the shadows of your mind,
They like to listen to you from afar before approach,
So they already know what to say to persuade you.
And that's how you know who they’re members are,Â
They speak your words to you before even knowing you,
Swooning in agreement without hearing spoke opinion.
But my slow brain isn’t fully stupid, and I hate paternalizing manipulation,
Watching cult cloaks enjoy dancing with corrupt and incompetent power,
A pack of fat and lazy coaches, twiddling players around in speedy panic.
And these cults are desperately insecure to retain you,Â
Electing the most dependent members quick to rank,
But holding back any that utter a word against them.
And if they really dislike you, they will keep up an attack,
Always trying to tweak you, so you fall into their traps,
Or you fail so they may keep you within their control.
But would they come talk to you like a human?
I doubt it, they don't care for that side of you...
A tweaked out mind is what they want of you.
Excellent, because I was worried, but now feel more secure;
There will be a smooth transition for a criminal fascist mouth.
I do hope the cushions will be fluffed and the mantles dusted,
Cleaning out fearful spider webs that tangled hope and vision.
History will never forgive that old loony fool,
That unyielding, neurotic, shadow of death,
Who had all the levers of a dictator at hand,
Enough to push advantage and rally troop,
And choose the kindness of dying process,
Wandering in a tizzy looking for its lost soul.
But utter incompetence now has a shallow face.
Division, disgust, and disdain are what it brought,
And the pull from greed to wrath is now its legacy.