Claw in Room Crap

I'm licking my own face incessantly tonight. The trumpets carry a sullen patriotism out among the silver maples of the park, and the picnic shelters, and the bare flagpoles. My coat, the one with the small ovals, provides sufficient protection from the gradually intensifying precipitation. I am applying saliva to the skin of my face with my tongue, the one you knew. Now, I doubt you can allow its presence in your defiled memory.