Macaroni-and chicken-chicken- strawberry

So like weeds are our monuments we’ve built to thieves. A monument to a thief i.e. every goddamned statue we’ve erected to honor our working class hey-ho-Joe American, or war-ified dignitary or obelisk or primate pillar. These weeds popping up even more so now that we are in a constant state of frenzied patriotic lust. So this is our new thesis now, that everything, everyone, every it, is a weed.
I can drink to that.
I used to think nothing grew in the city, but now I’ve seen the hardiest little shit taking root in the cracks of our sad city’s sidewalks, making themselves into an ardent mockery of the poplars who once populated the area, but now have absolutely no interest of residing in such a tired warzone. Sick shit chicken-shit tar hawk, tweedle-dum-tweedle-dee, I too am your average weed. My grandmother used to make me weed her garden in return for a trip to the zoo and every once in a while I happened to latch onto the kind of weed with super sharp barbs and sticky stalks that’s roots must have been as monstrous as the actual plant, and I’d run in crying with cuts all over my soft kid/baby hands.
Me, I am that kind of weed, sucking money from poor working class mom and money from good-for-nothing (except when the bills come around) dad. I know more than a handful of other weeds, sucking and leeching, lecherous plants, shooting up so tall that we kill off our more beautiful relatives, blocking out the sun. Dying hydrangeas weep when we come around to suck off her roots. Daffodils wish only to find a happier, sunnier place. We feel no remorse, just hope that a strong wind will come to carry our seeds further. We have offshoots coming from every direction. Watch out, watch fast, and if you ever notice a viney undergrowth taking over one of your more sophisticated brethren, walk in the opposite direction.