I Love Those Stags

I mounted the fake stag.
This one had necklaces hanging on his antlers.
I predicted he could actually hear me.
I was tired.
See, I had been blanching and icing all day.
Also making delicately fried chicken.
I provided cloth napkins for everyone.
They all came over and we drank.
Some said this was a happy moment.
Some promised to never return.
I mounted a cold fake animal in the night.
The highway glittered out like real America racing in circles.
Why, why, why, did they all not go home?
I provided chicken, napkins, opportunity—all of these things.
Still, those crazy cold stags refused to leave.
With a tender stomachache I pretended to dry heave into a bucket.
This sent them galloping into the uncertain night.