A poem for the poor kids

There is a star in my sky with a large fish swelling intensly over a swedish meatball being digested by a gorrilla named bob who was alive when Jane Goodall was living with chimps and then came the onset of music telesvison that made for an interesting read when it came to searching vast fields of three dollar bills owned by rupert murdoch who is a facist bigot and liar neoconservative twit who owns his own media network who makes all the children in the third world eat babies for breakfast under the name of muloch the ruthless god of the under world who's son is a pro boxer that resently competed in the australian open as a shape shifting human but looks like muloch with green flesh and camo to worship muloch shouting "oh frabshis day caloo calle" which was the first plot of my new movie about a girl who wrote a novel about another novel named "fram: my life in colors" a new best seller in yidish bookstores where the rabbi of the sun walked on the moon for licks that never came from that toad infested giant of a king sitting on the throne of Thor the son of jackson the slayer of Roth the son of Khallid who once bore birth to a sea turtle named Guido who owned a kaftka shop in Barcelona under the surname Rollenza the first that bloody git of the moon I wished that we would have been snow plowers who make money by selling her body to science and buying gifts for pupies who will never see the Jupiter moons of the third dynasty in the sky where we shall eat cake for eternity by mulochs name only we will abode thy love and band the guns of snow over the ending cloud of summers set and equinox of the shafting prayer given at my fair lady's funeral on her own birthday thy fair oterbys because we alone can share in thoughts and illusions relating to the days when we could walk freely over the sand into the fire of love and pain by which we live under the gas lights and drink terpintine freely until we die of heat stroke and are reancarted as tape worms.