nothing in common. not brands of soap, nor church affiliation,

not genetics, nor heaven forbid, the roadmap used

to find the way home. they don't have homes; not Common

homes. their hearths are made of gold, ours: of crap.

their food is different, their speech on another plane, their

mice are docile and don't carry diseases: they sing.

nothing in common. born with eight hands for the taking,

six mouths to be fed while the others wield swords, of gold,

they shed not blood when vanguished, but a sap-like goo that's good on pancakes.

their children are all smiles their soups never burn

they are so unlike us, we have nothing in common.

they pimp us and we pimp ourselves: big difference.

nothing in common, nothing in common. i wonder why we only have

a couple thousand nothings on our side?

the less common, the more crowded nothing seems.