787. CRUSTACEAN BELLS BY THE BOWLFUL

CRUSTACEAN BELLS
BY THE BOWLFUL
( a true story)
I've not come this far to trip on your balderdash.
I won't wear the wig belonging on your bald head.
My factions are crowded in small big corner,
yet they outnumber your lassos by twenty to one.
That rise in your belly - it's either pure fat or
your corpulent complacency about your lies.
You see, you see, I can be as nasty as the next.
-
Those were blue skies once, I thought, fellow,
in your blue eyes. Now I see they're but the
wrinkled skin of a corpse turned blue all over.
-
Just today, I was out at the water by
Penn's Manor, where once William Penn
would boat to his country estate. I looked all
around, and what I saw made me gag.
Waste Management has run the place amok -
their piles of, nay, great hills of, trash (reminding
me of nothing so much as your mind), have covered
over this once great land - making all things, by signs,
'Off Limits' and closed to the public - as if, by
some totalitarian magic, the entire revolution's been lost.
What America may once have been has been turned to shit.
-
Just like you, buddy,
just like you.