the mad lib says they’re fighting for their blank

the cause of which faint fear would seek to blanket

a hope as bright and brash as stiff streaked blue-jay

claims proof of truth within fresh long aged bourbon

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failure destined, a self designed in royalty

promises burst from lips squinted through bubbles

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that rupture wide believing eyes as bubbled

expressions quick of young men killed so blank

their passion watched and weighed just short of boiling

it’s doubtful more than half will even make it

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be vetted by the death of vanquished bourbon

in noble view of aforementioned blue-jay

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we throw a stare at wisely waiting blue-jay

who dozes in a tree above our troubles

in nestled sticks of dehydrated bourbon

that stumble cradle newborn eggs in blank

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the sound of fighting through a tight knit blanket

could make one think the world below were boiling

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point at bird’s eggs once they grow old to boiling

recording sharp enough for modern blue-ray

the grass on graves makes quite a lousy blanket

yet worms spurt forth in cold and brainless bubbles

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oscillating twice thump, then beating blank

cadence across a loose bound drum of bourbon

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beat frank with honest rhythm, unique bourbon

distilled through careful calculated boiling

the muzzle’s bark refuses fast to blink

hold hot in hand a sudden streak of blue-jay

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curious taste of cleared for landing bubbles

remembers itch of crawled sharp woolen blankets

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our bullets warmed within less frictioned blankets

our breath still drunk with hope and quite suburban

our blood pours from their mouths in frothy bubbles

our taciturn adrenal glands steam boiling

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perched high upon our rafter one still blue-jay

tries to remember why, then draws a blank