I hear it howl at the moon
The voice is primal, defeaning
I quake in fear at this thing
Where could it be hiding?
In a shed or a barn
Even in a cloud or inside of a car
I hear the leaves rustle, a branch
snaps. The wind is still, yet
I hear the soft rumble of an avalanche
The chase continues, where could it be?
Your mother is out there, somewhere.
Is it icecream or elmer's glue?
Could it be cake or is it a dish sponge?
Is it pine needles or pine sol?
That soft touch; asbestos or clouds?
Look before you lick.
The voice, you hear it, it tells you to lick
You brace yourself, you take a deep breath
they tell you not to worry, that you don't have to
you stick out your tongue and die on the inside
and there is your mother.