Candy Shop - Day 18

 Banana Runts

Let's have that dream where we're monsters

of rock. Make some drone in a satin jacket

pick out the bits we don't like 

at every venue we sell out. The fruits

of sin are death, which is convenient

if you like making plans or bullet

lists. Someone likes the worst flavor

of anything mixed: threatened decades,

satisfaction finally goes extinct.

If we could, we'd swallow globes

whole, like Pac-Man or his wives,

tally a high score, pay off the school

book makers to bunch us somewhere

ghosts can't chase.