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.
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