The Box

A box sits on the corner and it's gleaming.
A derelict in the shadows madly cackles.
The box is wrapped in pretty colored paper
and the derelict's eyes are wide, red, and staring.
Pretty paper's priestly psychedelic symbols
pull through your attention at your fingers,
while the weathered raving in the shadows
ushers caution with its utter absence.
Approach the box and circle wide and wary.
Note the madman rocking now is peeing
more obscene than if his pants were open.
The stain spreads down his pants, he does not notice.
He holds his side and knows, and keeps on laughing.

Gravely, from the graveyard, Graves now screaming:
Don't you touch that curs-ed god damned box!