Sweet Potato Sheep Sack

In my sack of sweet potatoes I often keep a sheep.
The magma from volcanoes consumes me during sleep
A cappella madness droning out the sadness
The fourth of every February death will take a leap.

Frog inside my crevice keeps away the flies
A skeleton Rebellion will overthrow the rise
Of Lithuania - when feral packs of paupers,
Went militantly boning like a seamstress hiding thigh.

Will be done almighty here on earth as is elsewhere?
The jungles of Montana; no good can come from there!
Ticker tape for naked apes appeasing one another
Until the Heart of Darkness will be stinted with a chair.

Men will battle, camouflaged, for things that rarely matter
Diligently wiping off the raining pitter patter
Window pane and entertain and explain it all against
The backdrop of the doorstep moussed with bloody batter.

Up into the atmosphere the errant satellite
Pokes Orion open in his orifice of the night
Sending shadows stiltedly into the cave of Earth
Covering the evil like a fresh potato blight

Which brings me back to sheep in sacks;
Understandably.