MY RUN-OFF CALLIOPE
Bang the drum slowly, and all hail
the conquering heroes. Each of those
having something to do with something
else, they keep me enthralled of this
miserable world : killers and thieves
in high places, wearing their jackets of
swarm with their pick-axe faces and legions
of followers. We simply give things away.
Now and again - the turn returns; it's the
turn of Manhattan's tao. Wild-woolies and hackers
with turtles and dues coming in. Keep out now.
Here's an idea : (let's cheer this). Pay a high
wage for the morons who serve us poison.
They deserve it. It's their occupation - and those
in line, all the while, will listen to the other whine
about fat and calorics and death. But let's
pay them to kill us, we're not dead yet.
Sometimes I just want to laugh; other times just cry.
Other times, I take my thin-sliced fry-pan blind to
seek out every bastard doing time. Black man,
white man, yellow man, fool. They all cheer the
same their wired-bastions; scavenger hunts for
nothing at all. My maddened calliope peals and
twirls. Let this motherfucker crash to the ground.