the good fight

Real-estate in the combat zone
could be bought for french fries,
now that the diminutive pixie-niks
trimmed their flamboyant locks
subsequently sprouting inversely.

One inch of flowing mane proved the
worth of twelve delving root buggers
—in width—
and the pixie-niks blossomed into
ten foot monstrosities, banging
on tin lids with the shin bones
of disinterred mastodons.

Spending time betwixt 425 Rhododendron Dr.
and the permafrost,
these shaved behemoths
scavenged and picked at their leisure.
The neighborhood watch hung up
its spurs and cowered in cellars,
polished off caches of dusty wine
and stale crackers.
Hardening cheese had long since been offered
as tribute: why not?, as the
noses of pixie-niks could
discern one part cheese
from a million parts unwashed manflesh
and once detected would not
be unsmelled.

A rapid cheese sniffing-nik
could dig out a cellar in moments,
as was discovered at
425 Rhododendron Dr,
now a sinkhole and icebox bone-yard
filled with white beige stainless coffins;
empty of all but the mold
they grow of their own volition.

Little could they know,
those cringers,
that retro-kin of Flingon,
bastard-spawn of a Batwing Zephyr
thrown into reverse,
would save Rhododendron Dr.
spilling pletheri of home-brewed Rogaine,
and too revealing his splendorous visage,
unwrapping mummified appendages
and golden glowing he says
'pull my finger'
and the rubber pixie-niks
like sopping Chia-pets ®
bloom in tinctured neon's,
plucked like suckers
by children and named;
names like WeeWillyWinkie,
SallyPinkPony and Petard,
hoist on the shoulders of
boisterous boys and girls
and spent like pennies
discarded for the
pleasures of a new day.

btw, Merrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry Christmas !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!