That there is a cicada killer, Stick.
    A Gaddafi doppelganger, eh wot?

    Before tea, this would be insolence
    from my peripatetic avian expert,
    and I haven’t had my gargled swig
    to take that from my errant friend.

    Sipped your Earl Grey yet? Lipton?
    Take Camomile tea. No, Darjeeling
    is more like it for this intel I’ve got:
    The Libyan marmoset eats cicadas
    to break his fast. He needs that to
    cleanse his bowels before the kill
    at Tripoli, before he feasts on limbs
    of marmot to march to the city’s edge.

    What does it matter that rhythmic
    chirping sounds would cease here
    when she steers the bright craft
    of her body toward the sun refracting
    sunlight while she feasts on gossamer
    wings flapping for a coup d’grace
    to stifle the sundown song, to end it all,
    much like mothers plead for murder
    a la mode before the battle howitzers
    crush their chanting lads and lasses,
    eaten like the silenced cicadas by wild
    men blowing their sons’ brains in Libya.

    Shut up, Stick. Where is the intel here?
    A case of preempting Muammar himself,
    retorted my now irascible companion,
    before he continues his global cicada kill.

    Apres Gaddafi, milord, the silence of the lamb.

    —Albert B. Casuga

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