Collected Poetry  VOLUME TWO Copyright © 2008 - 2009 by Gary Bachlund All international rights reserved Johnny B Blue and Suzy Q Johnny B Blue and Suzy Q?
Why they be plain ole folk like you
And me and all them others who
Live their lives and love them too.
Plantation hands and peasants all;
Laboring folks some boss would maul,
Get chewed up, spit out, we'd best recall,
Cause grandees always make them small.
Massas, pols, the upper crust
Grind these little folks to dust
For use in mobs and armies' thrust
To feed their bosses' bossy lust.
High atop some pinnacle,
The politick-hatchet cynical;
They speak their lies quite clinical
Which is quite clear and open
Though little folk keep on hopin'
Next time it won't be slipp'ry slopin'....
Johnny B Blue and Suzy Q?
They still be ole plain folk like you
And me and them others too;
From them those massas took, who
Plan to steal yet more from you
For that is what's in store, it's true,
For Johnny B Blue and Suzy Q
And me and you -- and you and you.
Choice Du mußt steigen oder sinken, du mußt herrschen und gewinnen oder dienen und verlieren, Hammer oder Amboß sein. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832) You could be the hammer or you could be the nail.
You could be swabbing mop or you could be the pail.
You could be the shot gun or the buckshot in its load.
You could be the traveler or a sign along his road.
You could be the colors or the easel on which they mix.
You could be the problem or you could be the fix.
You could the catalyst which works for everyman;
You could be the monkey wrench and spoil some master plan.
You will be or you won't be, for that's the way things work.
You could and can and will, or won't but stand and smirk.
The choice? It comes to this, for you to take some chosen stand.
And should you choose such not to do, then comes life's reprimand.
Yawn The roar of the yawn was discernible;
He'd heard too many shout,
"Help me! My needs are plausible!"
Till he was plum tuckered out.
The many had cluttered, clustered
And crowded him all about,
With cries of anguish blustered
Until that yawn came out.
Of beggars, one can have enough,
Of heated cries for help,
Until they blend, such begging stuff,
Into one consistent yelp.
"Gimme" becomes the shorthand
For all the long-played ploys;
Then "gimme" simply turns quite bland
As then its voice annoys.
Each cause must trump its brother
For each one is so just,
As justice becomes something other
Than doing what one must.
Soon too many play as victim,
Extending open palms,
Each seeking someone just like him
To answer pleas with alms.
But then comes up that roaring yawn
Which says, "That's just too much."
For beggars and their greedy spawn
Do grab and clutch and such
With "gimme" for their" needs are great"
And "what you have is mine,"
Until the yawn declares quite late
That "gimme" is an empty whine.
"I want" starts as a stream at dawn,
But soon becomes a flood,
Until he roars with such a yawn:
"From this turnip comes no blood."
At home is where one's charity,
Begins, for so he'd heard,
And with that simple clarity,
He'd yawned at the bleating herd.
The roar of his yawn was discernible,
He'd heard so many shout,
"Help me! My needs are most plausible!"
Until he was plum tuckered out.
A Unicorn Named Ira "You found what you found." Ira Einhorn, to detectives in a search of his Philadelphia apartment. March 28, 1979 Chic and radical, active and green,
A guru of peace and free love,
Civically active, and oh so keen
At controlling the girl he had seen.
She was lovely and luscious, a Beauty to his Beast;
He was evil and vicious to her.
To care about politics while blind, this priest
Proudly green, cared for her life not the least.
Oh, the Holly and and Ira
Were twined, then torn in twain,
And she was stored in a suitcase plain,
In his closet she was lain.
Philadelphia's Earth Day was a Einhorn-born thing,
As he railed as dissent 'gainst the foe;
As catalyst for change with post-radical zing,
A Planetary Enzyme was the song he did sing.
Ideas from the edge, and theories untold,
This Unicorn trod the intellect's path,
But his grasp of the world was an angry scold,
And free love for his Beauty was both hard and cold.
Oh, the Holly and the Ira,
They danced till she was dead,
And found in a suitcase plain
In a closet near his bed.
From handsome and chic and cheeky and bright,
He descended Darwinian stairs,
And grew fat and dirty, unkempt and a blight
On society's values and love's pure delight.
Awareness of the ecological kind
Was quite the fond game he had played.
And now she was rotting where she'd been consigned,
And to prison the Unicorn was justly consigned.
Oh, the Holly and the Ira
Is a story, old as the hills;
She was found in a suitcase plain --
His free love was that love which kills.
Debt Debt seems kindly
When first it meets
Debtors blindly.
Debt's benign
When first one sips
Its heady wine.
Debt grows tall,
And when it does
It comes to call.
Debt comes due,
And when it comes,
it comes for you.
Debt grows tall,
And as it does
It makes one small.
In arrears,
The days are dark
As they appear.
Obligation
Swiftly morphs to
Subjugation.
Debt is threat,
And with its fists
You'll be beset.
Debt is lien,
And debt is hard
For debt is mean.
Debt is sad;
When gone unpaid
It drives one mad.
Debt is dumb,
And you are too
To call it chum.
I mean to help "All things truly wicked start from an innocence," - A Movable Feast, Ernest Hemingway
I mean to help you, if you would allow;
I'll better your life more than it is right now.
I mean to help; but if you won't allow
I'd make things better, you must be made to bow
To all the best and all the good which I declare this day,
For you must pay and pay again if you would turn away.
I mean to help, and help I mean is what I clearly see,
Not what you feel or what you think, if you would disagree.
Refuse my help? My keen advice upon your plate?
If you do, then it's wicked you I must sternly castigate.
Discipline must be enforced, of course,
And I will do this without remorse.
I mean to help; but if you won't allow
I'd make things better, then you must bow
And bend your knee to this, my wisdom, properly;
For all your foolish error, you must -- nay shall -- obey me.
I must be mean to help, and you will allow
I'd better your life more than it is right now.
The end of the world Knock, knock! Who’s There? Armageddon! Armageddon Who? Armageddon outa here! Little Tommy Malthus came to merely say
that man's green earth would fail one most unhappy day.
Stanford's silly Ehrlich joined the silly fray;
seeing man's starvation, he truly did dismay.
Tipper's little Al did painfully convey
that his scorched earth would simply boil away.
For others this earth could someday freeze
if we'd not do quite what they'd please.
They'd preach their raging fire or freezing of the seas
and urge us all get down on our knees,
Resources gone, as shortages seize,
with ravaging hunger and dreadful dark disease.
Duck and cover, the bombs will blast;
the glowing devastation shall be vast.
Rachel's silent spring will come one day at last;
the dying off she said occurs really rather fast.
Visions like these should make one full aghast,
each who is convinced by such boiling bombast.
The ravaging horsemen of each apocalypse
are but men from whom such anguish drips.
Thinking each unthinkable in slogans and in quips,
these horsemen do grasp with threatening grips,
And peddle, preach and publish to their readerships
Their worries and fears of some apocalypse.
Jerome and Tertullian had it historically wrong
but still full loud they sang this ancient song.
Pandemics will roil and rage as they come along
And some will say we shan't live long.
The end of the world draws near -- and strong
is the lure for an unthinking throng. For us mortal men in mortality's queue,
an end surely comes for me as for you.
Ah, which end and which way is not quite in view,
but when it comes, there's little we will do.
Why waste this day with what might not be true?
Why not find something much better to do?
Kicks "I had learned not to care. I blew a few smoke rings, remembering those years. Pot had helped, and booze; maybe a little blow when you could afford it. Not smack, though... Barak Obama, Jr., in "Dreams From My Father: A Story of Race and Inheritance," Three Rivers Press, 1995.
Now, God knows, many things go --
Pot, booze, and blow, not smack though.
Speak truth to power, and then?
Sniff up that powder, take pen...
Write four letter words,
Maybe even better words,
Learn not to care,
Whine and wheeze.
His cold sort of words
Aren't Cole Porter words,
Smoke rings blown in the breeze,
But oh so intended to please...
He got a kick -- pot and booze.
Mere alcohol didn't thrill quite enough.
But in print we've apparently seen
That he got his kicks from that scene.
Chump Change - Variations on Mulberry Bush Billions go poof! down the rabbit hole.
Some of it's gone that somebody stole.
Some of it's spent on rigmarole,
Early in the morning.
Here we go round...
Someone's corrupt down that rabbit hole,
Far, far beyond an audit's patrol.
Some of the cash has gone for a stroll,
Early in the morning.
Governments dump in the rabbit hole.
Someone cleans up in that rabbit hole.
Someone gets wealthy from what they stole
Early in the morning.
Here we go round again....
Waste is flushed down the rabbit hole.
Fraud is alive down the rabbit hole.
Things happen there without control
Early in the morning.
Round and round,
Where she stops,
Nobody knows.
The buck stops here.
There's quid pro quo down the rabbit hole,
Funneling back through the lobbyists' role.
Folks skim the cream from the rabbit hole
Early in the morning.
Lazy Bones I want milk.
-- The cows are there.
Milk them? No. I'll sit and stare.
I want food.
-- The fields are ripe.
I shall sit right here and gripe.
I want cash.
-- The work calls out.
Better yet. I'll rage and shout.
I want things.
-- Things can be found.
What's with all this runaround?
I want what?
-- Someone else to work.
And if not, I'll go berserk.
I want... want....
-- Want comes to you.
With all my wants, I'm feeling blue.
Stop nagging me!
-- No more to say.
But it's you that makes me feel this way.
No Place From the dictionary definition for "Utopia, literally: no place, from Greek ou not + topos a place," and an homage to the prescience of T. S. Eliot by paraphrasing from his "The Hollow Land" in the last stanza, all to be sung to the tune of "There we go round the Mulberry bush."
No Place is called Utopia, Utopia, Utopia, No Place is called Utopia, As we will someday learn. There we shall found Utopia,
Utopia, Utopia,
There we shall found Utopia,
On wisdom, law and right.
There we go gathering other's wealth,
Other's wealth, other's wealth,
There we go gathering other's wealth,
For the common good.
Here we go spreading wealth around,
Wealth around, wealth around.
Here we go spreading wealth around,
That is not ours to give.
No Place is for the faint of heart,
Faint of heart, faint of heart,
No Place is for the faint of heart
Who backslide or defy.
These are those who must be chained,
Must be chained, must be chained,
These are those who must be chained
For the common good.
This is the way that freedom ends,
This is the way that freedom ends,
This is the way that freedom ends,
Not with a bang but a whimper.
It Doesn't Help "I don't think that really serves the purpose of informing the public and answering their questions honestly. It doesn't help." Senator Dick Durbin in the Herald & Review, Decatur, IL. August 14, 2009
Politics is a one way street
And leaders love to lead.
The politicians' wondrous feat
Is how things serve their need.
But when a people disagree,
Some senator has said,
"It doesn't help." Why don't you see,
It's not how he was bred.
It's you must follow and obey
Whene'er he speaks his speech,
But when you aren't 'neath his sway,
Why then you overreach.
He is the One, not the many you,
Who lead your lemmings' strut,
And you should all agree, it's true,
To follow, mouths wide shut.
"It doesn't help," he says again
To disagree and question
Whate'er he says, where'er or when,
So take his firm suggestion.
Mouth wide shut and eyes wide closed
Is how the lemmings run;
Together as a mob composed
In camps of concentration.
Modern Art I think about me,
And sing about me,
And celebrate me, me, me,
And obsess on me.
I'm pretty, you see,
So your galaxy
Must spin around me
And my gravity.
It's me must be
Your color TV,
So look upon me
And then magnify me
And focus on me;
And me, me, me
And my absurdity.
All the news is screaming All the news is screaming,
Day by noisy day.
Gosh, there're epidemics
Which must be held at bay,
And coming Armageddons
For which we all must pay.
There're dangers lurking darkly,
Their dire warnings say.
There're awful things a-coming,
A-coming when? Today.
There's war and pestilence
And horrors on the way.
But all these have in common
That little folks must pay.
The news is loudly screaming
That men must join their fray.
But how, one asks? The answer?
Their money talks. Now pay.
The jingle jangle of the news
Is a daily loud cliché.
Each item carries all the news
Which comes to "you must pay."
Pay and pay and pay and pay
Is their game we're asked to play.
And if we shun the daily news
In all its vast array,
All stuffed with op-ed blather
And fraught with loud dismay,
The news will just work harder
To get us all to pay.
Wholly indispensable
And worth the price, they say.
But maybe not, when all that news
Reduces down to "pay!"
Advertising, politics,
And more competes this day,
Which boils down to simply,
"We're asking you to pay."
Pay and pay and pay and pay
Is their game we're told to play.
That's all most news is screaming,
Day by noisy day.
Oh it's always someone else's fault Oh it's always someone else's fault
When I do just what I do.
The blame is clear; my somersault
Glues my blame direct to you.
It's all you fault, and none is mine.
The thought is just sublime.
Oh what I do, when I go wrong,
Is most surely all your fault.
It can't be mine; all faults belong
To some other's cracked Gestalt.
If you take no blame, it must be them
Who must then pay my fines.
It's really is quite the cleverest ploy
By which illogic shines.
Society is guilty, large and small,
For all the crimes I do.
It is they must pay, and prostrate fall
When e'er I give the cue.
Oh it's always someone else's fault
When I perpetrate some crime.
My sense is clear; this sweet assault
Paints others with my guilt-free grime.
It's all you fault, and none is mine.
The thought is just sublime.
Oh it's always someone else's fault....
Sketcherie for my friend, Julie Butterflowers, sunfingers,
Hearts in flowers bloom.
Colors, shapes and sizes
Paint away her gloom.
A bit of whimsy, up to par
While doodling her way back.
Eyes a little squiffy
Caught Terry's paperback.
Jars and pots with images
Running left to right.
Do something! Anything!
Like music brushed with light.
If lips be truly sealed
Then pictures sing aloud.
A friend who sees such dreams as this
Just makes a fella proud.
Killer kills killer Killer kills killer,
As both sides cry foul.
Yes, it's a thriller
As arguers scowl
Across their skirmish line.
You had encouraged!
No, you are at fault!
You should have discouraged!
Your killings must halt!
On sniping both sides dine.
Killer kills killer;
Each government sides,
And makes the game shriller
With government guides
To say some killing's fine.
Some killing's right
Is how the game's played.
That is the fight
As tensions get frayed.
Each has its sacred shrine.
Follow the money
To see how it ends;
The rancor's unfunny
And tears apart friends
As hatreds gleam and shine.
Killing is killing,
If words tell a truth.
But words can be chilling,
Cold and uncouth,
As lies both twist and twine.
Killing is killing,
Unless redefined.
Nice words do the spilling
Of blood, one should find.
Words like deeds malign.
Killer kills killer,
And both sides cry foul.
That is the pillar
Upholding each growl
Across a blood-soaked line. But mine isn't killing; It's nuanced, refined. Such is the distilling Of killing defined. With words then is all again fine.
I don't care "Find out just what the people will submit to, and you have found out the exact amount of injustice and wrong which will be imposed upon them; and these will continue until they are resisted with either words or blows, or with both." Frederick Douglass (c. 1818-1895) I don't care
If you're straight or gay;
I care a lot
If you stand in my way.
I don't care
If you're short or tall;
I care a lot
If you start a brawl.
I don't care
If you're a guy or gal;
I care a lot
If you are a pal.
I don't care
What colors your skin;
I care a lot
If you kick my shin. I don't care What chat you speak; I care a lot If at me you shriek.
I don't care
If you're this or that;
But I care a lot
When I smell a rat.
Chased Away "The success of girls in public education is, of course, to be applauded. But the manner in which it was achieved has been significantly damaging to the educational experiences and future academic aspirations of boys. An increasingly under-educated inventory of disengaged and isolated young males is unlikely to be in our collective best interest." In Canada.com, By The Vancouver Province, September 5, 2007 The Johnny Bulls were chased away
By their Nattering Noisy Nancies;
Those socio-pathfinders whined and raged,
Indulging their feminist fancies.
"The Johnny Bulls are bores," 'twas said,
Aloud by wag-nagging wenches
Who watched their Johnnies wither and fade
And shrink in the feminist clenches.
The Nancy brigades had done their work;
The Johnny Bull herds were culled.
The Nattering Nosiy Nancies asked,
"Why are our men drear and dulled?"
"We Nancies require the makeup and truss
To lift, light and leverage form,
Yet now that we've won in making our fuss,
We hunger for Johnny Bull's storm."
"A Nancy Bull hasn't the vinegar'd tip
To skewer some evils away,
Nor the muscle that's worth the price of a stamp
To stand up when we're predators' prey."
"Ah where are the lads of yesteryear?
The constant, the firm, the loyal?
The Johnny Bulls who would fight for the right,
Who would hold to the true? Who would toil?"
Nancies are right when they're feminine fine,
Not nattering, acid and snide,
But Nancy Johnnies will never be Bulls,
With feminist noises inside.
When chased away, when turned from their path
The Johnny Bulls lose their way;
The Nattering Noisy Nancies learn
Too late for mistakes they too must pay.
Nattering Noisy Nancies make
Piss poor Bulls for the herd,
And could use Johnny Bulls for their feminine sake
If never is heard their discouraging word.
Let's take that leaking lifeboat Let's cut a hole in the lifeboat
To learn if it might sink.
Let's slit a vein or artery;
An experiment, don't you think?
Let's build a model, fly it high
Without a wing or prayer;
Let's travel far and travel wide
To see if here is there.
Let's try some lame adventure,
Although its lesson's sure;
Perhaps a different outcome
Will show, if we endure.
Let's try the same thing yet again,
Though failure is the norm;
I'm sure the winds won't harm us,
In a hurricane-roaring storm.
Let's walk upon the water,
To see if we might stand;
Let's soar with wax and feathers
To shake the sun's right hand.
Experiments are finely fine
And scientific too,
Even when the outcome's known and false,
We can lie and say it's true.
Just pay us for our struggle,
And we will be quite glad
To gin up nice consensus
As if it's iron-clad.
It's all about the process,
This play of give and take
Wherein we take your money and
You buy the bilge we make.
Let's take that leaking lifeboat
To learn if it might sink.
Let's slit your vein or artery For consensus, won't you think?
Chicago Poem II "A Chicago alderman has been indicted along with a real estate developer on federal fraud and bribery charges. Isaac 'Ike' Carothers is chairman of the Chicago City Council's police and fire committee." Associated Press, 28 May 2009
Two in one year;
Now there's news to cheer,
An alderman caught deep in crime.
Consistency there
Shows that crime isn't rare
When politics parties with grime.
How to explain
The criminals reign?
Politics poisoned by slime.
Chicago's the link
In this chain and the stink:
Chicago's a paradigm,
Confirming suspicion
Chicago's tradition
Is politically grafted on crime. So say the poets
Like Sandburg who know it's
Chicago's way every damn time.
Free Money A tale for all who thought "debt" was "revenue" - be they consumers, governments, charities or foolish businessmen "Free money," said the fancy sign,
As I happened to be passing by.
Out in front good folk stood in line,
Each one for his piece of pie.
"Free money," it so clearly said.
"No risk, no obligation."
A little voice inside my head
Thought this some aberration.
Can there be money which comes for free?
Which one ought not pay back?
Golly gee, it occurred to me,
This sales pitch is crackerjack.
No wonder there's a line so long,
As each one waits his turn.
The math is just a little wrong,
As most would come to learn.
But for the moment and this crowd,
Seduction was complete.
The experts all had vowed
No one here must compete.
Everything is golden free,
Excepting small details.
Like working, slaving anxiously,
Because that's what "free" entails.
Tomorrow dawned before its time,
And good folk were dejected.
"Free money" proved a capital crime,
As I had once expected.
"Free money," said that rusting sign,
Swinging loose upon its hinges.
Good folk had swilled its salty brine
And sought too many binges. It seems the clever ones in charge Had freed folks of their money, And left them with a debt quite large, And prospects not so sunny. For a while, the lesson stuck, But then it came unglued. Time passes and things run amuck, As histories so late conclude. "Free money," some new sign swore,
I noticed with a sigh.
Out in front folk stood once more,
Each one for his piece of pie.
The Modern Politician To politicians of so many parties, genders, colors, spices and flavors He has nothing to say
But he says it quite loudly;
He has little to show
But he postures right proudly.
Self esteem overflows his cup
Though it's a tricky tacky goo;
Vitamin Me is his drug of choice
And his favorite flavored brew.
He has ill conceived plans
But he peddles them shrewdly,
Piling words upon words
Seeking not to act crudely.
Clever he is to have climbed up the heap,
To be greater than me or you.
Base and corrupt when not wicked and wrong,
He'll can argue the false with the true.
He has nowhere to lead,
But he steps out right grandly;
His know how is absent
As his plans fail quite blandly.
His self-love glitters like silver and gold
Like the treasure he fritters and wastes;
He lives lordly large with excesses galore,
With others to fund his fine tastes.
Nothing to say; nowhere to lead;
His performance is shining and bright.
After he supped and after he's dined,
He ready anew for some fight.
Minister, president, senator, mayor,
He borrows to pay for today.
Young or ancient, woman or man,
Those with cash are his ultimate prey. Smiles for the cameras with smiling pretensions Are smiled because well they sell, His roads are all paved with goodly intentions Though so many roads lead down to hell. This musing might tell of some you support, Or of some whom you rightly detest. But for such a notion here's a retort: One politician seems much like the rest.
Old Radicals A meditation on "We need a revolutionary communist party in order to lead the struggle, give coherence and direction tot he fight, seize power and build a new society." (in "Prairie Fire: the Politics of Revolutionary Anti-Imperialism, Political Statement of the Weather Underground", by Bernadine Dohrn, Jeff Jones, Billy Ayers, Celia Sojourn, 1974) One old radical has cleverly earned
His tenured, well-paid gig,
From which he snipes, yet is returned
A dividend, ripe and big.
His salary, piggy professorial,
Drops on his moneyed plate;
Another slops sponsorial,
Adding capital to his mate.
Between them, living on the hog,
They sing the radical's song;
Injustices, their catalogue,
They cry out loud and strong.
Quite nice, such radical comfort
Which they have come to love,
For they no longer know discomfort
While their words all come to shove.
Tear down the mighty from their seat?
And rage against the man?
But notice not their clever feat,
The radicals' money plan.
They're upper class, all blooded blue,
That's central to their scheme.
They're fat and sated, sassy too,
As they siphon off their cream.
They are the establishment, and in charge,
Which makes them radically fake,
Pontificating loud and large,
They're acquisitively on the take. Clever old coots, to write so well, And play their wordy game. And it is these lies they successfully sell To monetize their fame.
Old radicals with lots of cash
And creature comforts too,
Are living proof, their radical cache
Is capitalist through and through.
No moss growing on this rock There's no moss growing on this rock,
There's no rust on the plough.
There is that ticking of the clock
To urge me on -- for now.
There are no stewards calling breaks,
No barriers, save one.
There comes that time that time forsakes,
And then my race is run.
For now, that moment waits its turn,
Soft-spoken, patiently.
It is for now no great concern,
While life calls urgently.
There's time enough to turn stone,
To rust out in the rain.
There's time when time itself has flown
And the clock's advance is slain.
Rhetorical Tides To impartial historians and unbiased news media worldwide. Deficits bad?
Deficits good?
It all depends on the neighborhood.
When you're in power
In your government tower,
Then nothing you do is wrong.
On tides adrift
With winds that blow,
One thing is wise to know:
Such rhetorical tides flex and flow.
Debt? Is it bad?
Debt? Is it good?
It all depends on which brotherhood.
Is perching on top
As the language cop;
Then nothing they say can be wrong.
The tides? They shift.
Blustering words? They flow,
While the average Joe
Gets to carry his woe.
Lawmaking, bad?
Lawmaking, good?
It all depends on what's understood.
When it isn't you
To adjudge what's true,
Most everything's said to be wrong.
On tides adrift,
With winds that blow,
One thing wise to know:
Such rhetorical tides flex and flow.
More tax is bad?
More tax is good?
It all depends on what's understood.
When yet more ants pay
The freight for your day,
Then life seems a grasshopper song.
The currents are swift,
As yesteryear shows.
The tides flex both to and fro;
Mere rhetoric, each new emperor's clothes.
Ode to the Indiana Teachers Union "Indiana Pension Fund: Chrysler Sale Illegal, 'Tramples Their Rights' " - Huffington Post, 20 May 2009 The dreams of his father
Are reason enough
To gnaw your dreams apart.
He chooses the victors,
The losers, the rules,
But that is just the start.
One union will steal
From another a share,
As loudly his justice is shown.
And when the dust settles,
And his game is adjourned,
Away will your nest egg will have flown.
Audacity? Sure,
And it surely is change
That one hoped would not come to your door.
But as you have seen,
To buy something else
He's managed to sell off your store.
Redistribution
Sounds lovely, and tasty and grand,
As it tumbles from audacious lips.
It isn't as lovely
And much less than grand;
It's your cash that he casually strips.
The dreams of his father,
So few have discussed,
Are dreams which had failed before.
His dreams come to you
As a nightmare might come
To redistribute and settle some score.
The dreams of his father
Are reason enough
To gnaw your dreams apart.
Your dreams? Not valid,
Not reason enough,
And that's his political art.
In the game that's afoot,
You were just in the way,
Your dreams were just blown apart.
We've got to fight these battles "We've got to fight these battles!"
"The judgment day is nigh!"
"There's just so many problems,
And no one knows quite why!"
"The budgets are great big mess,
The environment is threatened too!"
Why, everyone is wailing loud,
"Oh no" and, "What's to do?"
"The worst of it is yet to come,"
The experts drivel on.
The news? It goes from bad to worse,
But maybe it's a con?
Life goes on and days fly past,
With folks all getting by;
And life still has such wondrous things;
You'll find them, if you try.
You don't need all that gloom and doom,
The fuss, the rage, despair!
The best things is this lovely life
Are free, like love and air.
The howler, he's just shrieking,
"Apocalypse again!"
And then he takes a little break,
To put those thoughts to pen.
Refreshed for yet more outrage,
He takes his place anew,
And screams and yells and gestures
In hopes he's seen by you.
But if you look the other way,
And go about your chores,
You'll see he gets more angry
When greeted by your snores.
"We've got to cancel Christmas?"
Just why, I'd like to know,
Except that if I ask him,
He'll carry on his show.
So I'll just pass on by the chap
And let him prattle on;
I refuse his silly, noisy game
And will not act his pawn.
Life always has its ups and downs,
From yesteryear, to now,
But problems all get figured out,
Somewhere, some time, some how.
Those battles aren't all equal,
And most? Just fuss and noise.
Turn them off and turn away,
And turn towards simple joys.
That's the lively, real game,
A "battle," you might say,
But I prefer some other name,
And live my peace-filled day.
Raise those taxes! Raise those taxes! My, o my!
Let's raise those taxes mountain high!
Raise those taxes by and by,
But raise them on the other guy!
Crazy taxes slip on by!
Make crazy taxes! Who'll ask why?
Crazy? Yes, vote with "aye!"
'Cause lazy me's my alibi!
Living's fine and dandy
When someone else will pay!
Just like sugar candy
Without the tooth decay!
Praise folks' taxes feeding me!
Oh, praise those taxes, yes siree!
Praise those taxes' spending spree!
Who pays those taxes! It ain't me!
Consensus Pile consensus highly high;
And let it Babel to the sky.
A massive mound, spectacular,
Remains just shit, in the vernacular.
Spread it wide and spread it far,
From Washington to Zanzibar.
Cover much with the political "it",
But still it stays just shitty shit.
Praise it, laud it, spin it round,
Or measure it by mile and pound.
Press it, sell it, yea, adore,
But still it stinks as once before.
Speeches, research, scholars' love
Will not make us fonder of
Its stink or its ubiquity
Which is nicest when it's absentee.
Debates are o'er and done with;
So goes this man-made myth.
Though consensus is but stinky shit,
Few fools do dare reject it.
Pile it up, most highly high;
Let it tower in the sky.
A rhetorical mound, spectacular,
Remains just shit, in my vernacular.
Sometimes Sometimes up is up
And down is down;
Grammar speaks plain
When it doesn't clown.
Sometimes in is in
And out is out,
Unless against sense
You're prepared to shout.
Sometimes right is right
And wrong is wrong;
Some men are weak,
And some are strong.
Sometimes truth is truth
And not a lie,
Though words betray us
By and by.
Sometimes soft is soft
And hard is hard;
Sometimes clarity
Is cloaked and barred.
Sometimes proof is proof
While deceit glares bright;
And sometimes plain truth
Can conquer might.
Meetings Titanic, meet iceberg;
Tooth rot, meet pliers.
Governments' debt makes
Government liars.
Arrows, meet targets;
Crimes, meet jail.
Surely the rules say
Rule breakings fail.
Teeter, meet totter;
Risk, meet pain.
Things simply break
Under too much strain.
Promise, meet sell-out;
Love, meet hate.
Betrayals are many,
It seems, of late.
Dissent, meet power;
Flee, or meet fate.
Things just collapse
Under too much weight.
Rebel, meet fists;
Tyrant, meet coup.
History foretells
What is coming for you. Iceberg and pliers, Debt and crimes, For testing men's souls, These are still the times.
The Wisest of Men All this leads back to the sneaking suspicion that the top minds at Newsweek think they are the wisest of men, the definers of trends and the shepherds of public opinion. So why is everyone abandoning their advice? Why are the captains of a magazine that's lost half its circulation telling the rest of us where the mainstream lies? Brent Bozell, "The Decline and Fall of Newsweek," Creators Syndicate, 16 April 2009
We're the wisest of men,
the definers of trends,
and shepherds of public opinion.
We seldom are wrong,
While rushing headlong
To our future directing the throng.
Words, courageous and strong,
Opining on and erelong
That the public might our labors prolong.
As the wisest of men,
As definers of trends
Who should shepherd your little opinion,
Why then do we fade?
Why's our public then strayed?
Why do we seem smaller and grayed?
Ah, with wisdom comes age!
That's our excuse and our gauge
To why we see ourselves as so sage.
We're enlightened, Amen!
We've the smartest of friends
Who all dream of political dominion.
But why then, alas,
Is the public so crass
As to leave reading us en masse?
Our magazines ought
All to be bought
By mere sheep that should subtly be taught.
They're not wise like pressmen,
Who are their best-est of friends,
Defining their unthought-of opinion.
For this readers stray,
Not their betters obey.
Why must they then have their own say?
The New Man "...the best way to ensure that many more future governments will be forced, as they will then see it, through population pressure, to legislate for coercive birth control." Compulsory Limits on Births “May Become Unavoidable,” July 11 2007, Optimum Population Trust
The new Renaissance? Let men die.
Withhold prosperity and by and by
They will so surely; Death is nigh.
All to the Good, the New Man shrieks,
For fewer men is what He seeks;
Save the Earth, seas, fields and peaks.
Without Blemish of so many men,
Then Man stands proudly tall, again,
And thinks himself among the Supermen.
With new birth aborted, halted, killed,
The goodly Good of the New Man filled,
The Earth will speak, men's voices stilled.
A new Renaissance? For only Them,
Not for other men they so condemn;
A Renaissance, yea a stratagem.
Men must die that Man may live;
Their Law becomes quite Relative
As Man against men is the gift they give.
Their new Renaissance? Let men die.
Each Man who speaks this by and by
Means quite some other man, and there's Their Lie.
The World Is Coming to an End "Now and then a cult appears and announces that the world will soon come to an end. By some slight confusion or miscalculation, it is the cult that comes to an end-" G. K. Chesterton The world is coming to an end;
Thus, send your cash to me.
With me, your cash is your best friend,
Yes, that's what I foresee.
You've little use for meager change
When massive change comes due;
So while it seems a trifle strange,
Send cash to me -- from you.
The world will surely poorly end,
Unless you freely give,
And if you will not join this trend,
I must turn punitive.
The world will end by flooding,
And so you must be drained;
To stem the tide that's budding,
It's you must be restrained.
The world will end in fire,
And so I'll take your cash.
And if you proof require,
You'll find I rage and thrash.
The world will end, I tell you,
And for this you must pay;
Your world will end, I swear you,
And you shall not say nay!
I'll heap such fears upon you,
Until cash flows my way;
I'll prophecy and argue
Until you come to pay.
If you can pay a little,
You then can pay yet more;
And so I'll carve and whittle
Until your payments soar.
The world might end, don't scoff!
But, send your cash to me.
With me, your cash is better off,
Yes, that's what my prophets see.
The world might yet be saved,
But I will not pay you back;
For cash is what I always crave.
Without it I would lack.
The Once Great British Bulldog "You are the devalued Prime Minister of a devalued Government." Daniel Hannan, MEP for South East England, to Prime Minister Gordon Brown The once Great British bulldog
Is now a begging mutt.
It's Brown, and is a lap-dog;
Of laughter, it's the butt.
Bow-wow-wow and borrow
Was never clever, and
Now, oh wow, oh sorrow,
It's now Insolvent Land.
That once Great British bulldog
Is now a mangy cur;
Its Labour was but prologue
And now has proved to err.
Aristocrat-like canine,
It chewed contention's bone;
It moped about; and may whine
On seeing chances flown.
This once Great British bulldog
Is mongrel-like and sad;
It sees its neighbor Frog,
More solvent and less mad.
But this fool British bulldog
Borrowed trouble twice and more;
And now thinks in its fog
Of more borrowing until its poor.
I Need Another Credit Card "In order for us to get a handle on these costs, it's also important that we are honest in what these costs are." Barack Obama, 24 March 2009 I need another credit card; this one I have is maxed.
I need another credit card before my style is axed.
By owing more, prosperity will seem to be my way.
By owing more, austerity will come some other day.
By owing more and more and more, I'll spend and spend and spend,
And then my debts won't make me poor, unless this game shall end.
When one lone chap plays out this game, it seems a fool's delight.
When government makes this its aim, we're told it's fair and right.
Who needs another credit card, when one runs red with ink?
The one who drops his fiscal guard, and spends up to the brink.
Why name it cash flow, when it's debt? Red-ink insolvency
Invests in chatter, as in threat, invests ambitiously.
But borrowing after borrowing is never paying back,
And soon it is torpedoing a game that's spins off track.
When Ponzi played this merry spiel, history learns us well,
The game was only meant to steal with lies that he could sell.
When one lone fool makes loans to pay the interest on his debt,
We look upon this fool's display to life and limb a threat.
But when a nation does the same, the serious opine
The wisdom of this foolish game as if it were benign.
But paying yesterday with borrowing is not benign nor fair.
This game will cause much sorrowing, much travail and much care.
The sauce which is the goose's is sauce for gander too.
The game in which one loses plays out, for me and you.
Some Days Are Diamonds for Julie Dalton, my friend Some days are diamonds,
Some days are stone.
Some days the aching aches
Deep within the bone.
Some days are splendid,
Some days are bleak.
Some days stretch on an on,
A quaking, shaking week.
Some days are lively,
Some days are sparse.
Some days and most,
Life plays its comic farce.
Some day, the diamonds
Some days have shown
Will fail in their brilliance,
For diamond too is stone.
Some common stones
Burn in star bright light;
Some day when common life
Comes larger into sight.
Diamonds and common stones
Are family, one and all,
And with each springtime
There comes another fall.
Some days seem diamonds,
Some days seem stone.
Life was then, is now and
To tomorrow will have flown.
Bureaucracy (paraphrase of Joachim Ringelnatz's "Ein Taschenkrebs und ein Känguruh") A sweet little crab and a kangaroo,
Wanted to wed like me or you.
City Hall said this was not allowed,
"You're not alike," judged the legal crowd.
They cried out angrily: "Cursed and damned!
The bureaucracy simply will not understand!"
They hung themselves at the City Hall door,
A municipal remembrance, evermore.
Chicago Poem "Most aldermen, most politicians are hos." Convicted former Chicago Alderman Arenda Troutman, as in Chicago Breaking News, February 18, 2009
Most aldermen are hos,
Most politicians, those
Who pocket cash and pose
As honest, simple foes
Of corruption as it grows.
Most aldermen are cheats,
Corruption sweeps their streets,
Greasing palms in private suites
In grimy, stained deceits
With all those fine elites.
Most aldermen prostitute
As if they're destitute,
When caught, then they dispute
And loudly proud refute
Till evidence makes them mute. Every city's got them,
Just like this crooked femme,
They choose this stratagem
And spend their time to stem
Justice, which will condemn. An alderman in jail?
Where did her scheming fail?
Prove fraud by tax and mail?
Ah, justice did prevail;
It's just newest age old tale.
The People's Bill "I think we have a good security and economic team. I think we'll do better." Bill Clinton, Kuala Lumpur, 5 December 2008 They haven't got a clue;
The bill is coming due.
They're looking hard at you
To pay.
They've fumbled in the game,
But evidence no shame,
While thinking you're to blame
Today.
The brightest and the best
Have each puffed up a chest;
Not them, but you are pressed
To pay.
Tomorrow is tapped out,
As there's a money drought;
And politicians pout
Today.
They said they knew it all,
The price was just so small;
Then came their budget sprawl
To pay.
The game is closing now,
With finding some cash cow
And milking her somehow
Today.
But she's not easily caught,
And hoofed it as she aught;
Her milk is giving naught
To pay.
Yet politicians spend
As if without an end;
It buys them one last friend,
Today.
If skeptical you are,
You've every right to tar
And feather every czar
You may.
They haven't had a clue
The bill was coming due.
They've always thought that you
Would pay.
Their bill is coming due
Today.
No One Likes "I Told You So" No one likes "I told you so,"
When it applies to them;
But when you are their target,
It's a fine, rhetorical gem.
To be quite wrong? That's just no fun,
But being right is fair.
It all depends what role you have
And how much blame you share.
If you can pass the passing buck
To some poor, witless stooge,
Why then it's easily applied
And you call them "Scrooge,"
Or "profligate," or "stupid,"
Or any other name,
For in this wordy word play
All is fair and game.
"Ad hominem" is angry,
But "I am right, you're wrong"
Is such a fine, delicious tack,
It's quite the siren song.
No one likes "I told you so,"
For life too plays that game;
Life's consequences come along
And spoil it as a game.
The Double Standard Song "Prince Charles was accused of hypocrisy last night for using a private jet on an 'environmental' tour of South America. The prince will travel to the region next month in a visit costing an estimated £300,000 as part of his crusade against global warming. He will use a luxury airliner to transport himself, the Duchess of Cornwall and a 14-strong entourage to Chile, Brazil and Ecuador on a 16,400-mile round trip." Daily Mail, UK, 14th February 2009 Do as I say, not as I do;
Listen up, I'm a-tellin' you,
What I say is fine an' true,
An' rightly right quite thro' and thro'.
Heed my words.
Heed what I say, my words obey,
And notice not nor my deeds weigh
When I cheat or when I stray
From my own sage advice today.
Need my words!
Listen, heed, conform, comply.
Ask no questions such as "why?"
Embrace, observe, abiding by
Such sage advice as offer I.
Need my words!
Heed my words!
All of my words are golden bright,
And my advice is always right;
Measure me not as I recite
The words that I'll ignore tonight.
Heed my... Need my words.
Double standards are my game,
And isn't it a crying shame
That you can't have them, all the same,
For they are mine, and that's my game.
Need my words!
Do as I say, not as I do;
Listen up, I'm a-tellin' you,
What I say is fine an' true,
An' rightly right for all of you'.
Be my herds:
Not as I do.... Do as I say.
Not as I do.
Scare Tactics Catastrophes are coming sure,
Our governments do us assure.
The news is all so deeply keen
That scary things are easily seen.
Salmonella in the eggs,
And deep thrombosis in the legs.
Listeria in the best of cheese.
Wind-borne toxins on the breeze.
BSE in infected beef.
Pollutants kill each dying reef.
There's bird flu in the flying fowl;
As wind turbines kill the dying owl.
Methane farts from windy cattle
Call wind-filled activists to battle.
Mercury in the blue fin;
Oh God! And then there's saccharin!
Estee Dee's most coy infections
Travel through some boy erections.
Insecticides are simply awful,
And some are made unlawful.
"Asbestos" is the lawyers' cry,
As acid rain drops from the sky.
Catastrophes predicted.
The homeless once evicted.
Dioxins stuff the poultry;
Fish die off in a dying sea.
Satanic is some child abuse,
Talk radio is running loose.
Obesity is run amok
And there's that sinking, rising buck.
Hunger stalks the hungry lands,
Grim suburbia expands.
Polluting carbon spewed by man?
Condemning CO2 is someone's plan.
Movie popcorn kills, they say,
Tobacco, booze, come what may.
The world is burning, fever fed,
That what some folks see ahead.
Others say an ice age comes.
According to statistics' sums.
Gosh, nitrates poison water,
And genocides make for slaughter.
Some foresee that silent spring,
And smoking is appalling.
Populations exploding like the stars,
Preach our scare-fed commissars.
The world is coming to an end,
Why, it's a most dreadful trend.
There's fear that we can't do enough,
And fear that too much is far too tough.
Oh, all the fear and scary chat,
My advice? The hell with that!
Live a life that finds its joy,
If only that it will annoy
The worry warts and anxious brood
That hector forth dark certitude.
Live a life that says goodbye
To scare tactics as they withdraw, then die.
This is the scariest thing of all,
When scare tactics can no longer call.
The prophets preaching gloom and doom
Will find fewer dupes for them to groom,
And when laughter fills the light of day,
These angry folks must shrink away.
Bulls "A politician should have three hats. One for throwing into the ring, one for talking through, and one for pulling rabbits out of if elected." Carl Sandberg Bulls make excrement,
As politicians do;
The stench from their offices
Is dearly costing you.
Cities', states' and nations'
Greased with stinking lard,
Buy some loyal cadre
As their royal bodyguard.
Get a whiff of politics,
Its double standards stink;
It is not what politicians
Would rather have you think.
But stink it does, not redolent
With promises' sweet bouquets;
Its smell like bull, for such it is,
But they love it anyways.
Bulls make excrement,
The politicians more;
The stench of such excrement
Is the perfume they adore.
No God is the god for me I hate it that you speak of God,
And find the whole thing more than odd.
Such delusion! Such great error!
If only such believers could be so fair,
Believing not except like me,
And this is my one great plea.
Believe in No God that isn't there,
As I do here, in my No God Prayer!
I hate that God is on your lips,
Which explains my shoulder's many chips!
Your delusions cause me great pain,
As I rage away in my No God brain.
I'm repelled by a God of which you speak,
It pressures my blood to a fit of pique!
That you dare think not like me
Is an abomination, don't you see?
Convert away from the believer's need,
And believe my truth-filled Non-God creed.
When you speak of God, more God,
And together as you silently nod,
I so resent it that you don't agree
There is No God, quite like brilliant me.
I'm offended! Slighted! Vexed! Upset!
I redden and break out in a sweat.
You are deluded, not like me;
I should be your high authority!
Believe my plea and not in God
For your belief is the real fraud.
I believe there is No God
And worship, praise, adore and laud.
No God is the anti-god for me,
And should be for you but for stupidity.
No God fills my every thought,
And for this No God I have fought.
No God is my dear belief,
My antidote and my relief,
For religions have brought the world its grief
While my religion is disbelief.
It's mere inconvenience to my creed
That atheist nations killed indeed
Far more than all religions did,
But don't look at that! No God forbid!
My creed is so pure and fair,
You all should fall into its snare.
I hate it when you speak of God,
And find the whole thing more than odd.
Such delusion! Such great error!
All you believers should be so fair,
Believing not except like me,
And this is my one great plea.
No God is the god for me!
A Sunshiny Thought I blithely squash every little worm,
And watch its squishly squashly squirm.
My lack of sympathy indeed
Knows worms will soon revenge the deed.
A Vase of Carnations This life shows me interesting vistas, I dream,
A hodgepodge of hallucinations;
And things are not always the things that they seem;
And I am a vase of carnations.
Love Songs for Dorothy An appreciation of Dorothy Parker (1893-1967) i. Romance Novel
Dark days are come,
And the nights are long,
As he turned numb
To a love that turned wrong.
ii. Cigarette Smoke
My first love was a hero
In shining armor then;
My second was a zero,
On a scale from one to ten;
My third went up in smoke,
My fourth was a joke.
I've lost count of the amount now.
Okeydoke?
iii. What About It?
Woman wants one steady beau;
Man hunts many -- tally-ho!
Love is woman's total sum,
Man beats on a different drum.
Woman's love is deep and broad,
Man suspects love will be fraud.
What can one make from all of this?
Like hell it is? Or is it bliss?
iv. Jumbled
Love is up and then it's down,
then it's right, and then it's wrong.
Is there somewhere sage advice
To put aright this jumbled song?
All loves' labors writers tell,
All love stories authors penned,
Say it's heaven and it's hell.
How then does the story end?
v. A Litany of Symptoms
I do not like the way I feel,
I'll crack up, blow a fuse and squeal.
I find myself an awful mess,
An awful truth it is, I guess.
I dread the dawn, and dread the night;
I hate I don't . . I hate I might . . .
I cannot find my inner peace,
My inner passions will not cease.
I need to break this devilish spell.
I need not feel quite this unwell.
I do not ail, I am not ill.
I have no reason to be shrill.
I am afflicted, in much distress,
And much, much more, I do confess!
I rant and rave and rage and roar.
I'd like to settle every score.
And when I think of love at all...
In love, its seems, I'm sure to fall.
And when I think of love at all...
In love, its seems, I'm soon to fall!
Left and Right "We were talking about your politics." A anonymous friend at a July 4th barbeque, 2001
The Left thinks me quite Right,
The Right thinks me quite Left.
They both judge me as a blight;
In this they are quite deft.
I refuse the Left and Right,
As both seem equally
To holler, wag, and wage a fight
With faux intensity.
They both seek the world's power
Which I can never grant.
They both in every hollering hour
Rage and vent and rant.
Governors are best, I've learned and think,
When governance is least,
When those fat cats quietly shrink
And gorge not as a hungry beast.
"He," they rant, "who is against me
Is for the other guy."
An insipid, clever little game,
But one that I did spy.
I'll not be for the Left,
And not be for the Right.
Neither one means anything
Except getting fish to bite.
The Left, it plays with outraged slights;
The Right with such things too.
They both are keen and like their fights,
A mean and angry stew.
Government is quite best unseen
And not so mighty high.
For this these parties call me mean,
An independent kind of guy.
I will not wear a label
Which reads as Left or Right.
I'll resist, as best I'm able
And therein lies my plight.
It's very right to be left alone,
And live one's private life.
That's what Left and Right dislike,
And why they stink their noisy strife.
Let's All Sacrifice "Let's all sacrifice," the rulers drool,
Their children taught in a private school.
"Let's all give just a little more,"
Say rulers, adding yours to their sumptuous store.
"Let's all forfeit for a worthy cause,"
Chide rulers, as they hone their claws.
"Let's all offer up, as best we can,"
Scold rulers, while excluded from that plan.
"Let's all forego for just a little while,"
Whine rulers mid their sumptuous style.
"Let's all" means us but never them,
For that's their daily prayer. Amen, amen.
All God's Chillun Got Credit Cards The voice of one, crying in the wilderness.... Isaiah: XL All God's chillun got credit cards,
De workers, de fat cats and dem's jobs don't pay;
All God's chillun got credit cards,
That seemed de heavenly credit way.
All de banks, dey got credit cards,
An' haggle ev'ry day over hefty debt;
All de banks got huge credit cards,
An' lots of debt dat stays not met.
All de biznus dey got credit cards,
An' long and short der way around;
All de biznus dey got credit cards,
With debts dat prove unsound.
All de hedge funds, dey iz credit cards,
Dat shove de debt all over de place;
All de hedge funds, dey iz credit cards,
An' leverage and loss widdout a trace.
All de politicians, dey luv credit cards,
But dey go beggin' jez de same;
All de politicians, dey luv credit cards,
But when dey fold, don't take no blame.
All folks' cities got credit cards,
An' look to borrow more today;
All folks' cities got credit cards,
To borrow f'um another day.
All great states -- dey've got credit cards,
De fattest and de leanest an' de meanest too;
All great states -- dey've got credit cards,
An' pile up de debts fu' you.
All de nations got credit cards,
De richest an' de poorest an' de in between;
All de nations got credit cards,
An' peddle bonds, for debt is keen.
Would ya loan yer money to a credit card?
Would ya toss yer money away?
Would ya loan yer money to a credit card,
And have to pay to play someday?
Who ya gonna blame for de credit woe?
De chillun, or de banks or de biznus folks?
De investors, politicians or each city schmo?
De gov'nors or de presidents dat credit chokes? Credit stretches jez so far, An' den it bounce back where it war; Credit stretches jez so far, An' ders jez too many sippin' f'um dat jar. All God's chillun got credit cards,
An' all dat debt got huge one day;
All God's chillun got credit cards,
An' somethin' gotta bust, come what may. You kin be certain all God's chillun got debts; Debt and taxes, dat's certain too. You kin be certain all God's chillun got debts; And all dem debts? Dem's lookin' fo' you.
Tomorrow comes Tomorrow comes;
You can't finance today
with tomorrow's sums.
Collection time ever nears.
Tomorrow comes;
Don't borrow from next week
for some tomorrow's crumbs.
Collection time' grimace leers.
Tomorrow comes;
You cannot pay with debt
From all of your chums.
Collection time hates arrears.
Tomorrow's nigh;
The end of the road
For each pyramid guy.
Collection time brings its fears.
Tomorrow's here;
You can't finance forever
and tomorrow's drear.
Collection time perseveres.
'Comes collection time,
But you just can't pay
For your promises' crime.
Collection time brings no cheers.
Tomorrow's now;
You can't finance again
With an empty vow.
Collection time's bringing tears.
Three Songs for Roger Life Life's ups and downs don't ever disengage,
And when one book is read, there's still some other page.
The ins and outs are just a part of one big cage,
And you must play, for all this world's your stage.
What's a little scratch when you got an itch?
What's a little flick to the power switch?
What's a little catch for the pitcher's pitch?
What's a little gloom when your life's a bitch?
One comes with the other one, that's for sure.
For most every illness there seems some cure.
If you start with one, you'll deal with two,
'Cause that's what life has made for you.
What's a soothing balm for each ache and pain?
What's a plumber's plunger to that backed-up drain?
What's a little bleach to the red wine stain?
What's a changing wind to the weathervane?
One comes with the other one, I'll tell you true.
For any one thing there comes the cue
That you'll play with one, but romp with two,
'Cause that's how life was made for you.
What's a fitting answer to every little plight?
What's the color black to the color white?
What's a bumpy tumble from some lofty height?
What's a workman's wrench when the nut's too tight?
What's a little lovin' when you're feeling fine?
What's the thing that's yours that is also mine?
What's the dark of night when the sun does shine?
What's that giant puzzle? Read between each line.
One comes with the other one, I'll say it straight.
For any one thing, like love or hate,
You will sport with one, but war with two,
'Cause those are the rules life's made for you.
Who Am I? What am I, as I look back?
That fallen giant or the bean stalk Jack?
Is the handsome prince what I have been
Or just some Joe taking it on the chin?
Where am I, as life goes by?
A Gulliver's traveling kind of guy?
I've been lost but I've been found,
And I've been loosed, though once was bound.
Was I the tailor killing flies
But also that dragon's last surprise?
Are all my stories quite the same?
I'm due the praise and due the blame.
Who and what and why, I ask,
While taking off each story's mask?
Who am I, as I take and give?
Why exactly do I live?
Who am I, as life goes on?
The ugly duckling and a graceful swan?
Who am I, each day I live?
What is it that I might give?
Love Love; it's a difficult word at the very best.
It don't mean a thing, if it ain't got that sting.
Besides, what's love gotta do with it?
Pop stars holler and sell a hit,
But it could as well be in a grade school skit.
What does love mean to you and me?
Does it mean my freedom or your slavery?
I love my pizza, and I love my beer,
I love my dog, and conquering fear.
When my team wins, I love to cheer,
And when they lose, I love to jeer.
I love to cuss, and I love to grouse;
I love to laugh, and I love my spouse.
To love so many things is great,
That even I can love to hate.
I love bein' right, and I love bein' seen
In all the right places, or in between.
I love to fight when the time is right,
And the time seems right both day and night.
I love myself, even when I don't,
And I love to choose, even when I won't.
I love to love to love to love,
And especially when push comes to shove.
So what does all this lovin' mean?
Is love from God or just a chromosomal gene?
Is love its very own opposite?
Is love so fine though sometimes shi....?
Oh, I love my pizza, and I love my beer,
I love my dog, and conquering fear.
So, come what may, this much seems clear,
Love's here to stay, from what I hear.
Ponzi states All are Ponzi schemes and nothing more;
each government's a haughty hustling whore
who vends its bustling favors to both greedy rich and poor.
These are pyramids which cannot stand;
each government's a damaged brand
which no longer feeds the fires that they all have fully fanned.
These are houses of cards which teeter now;
each government pretends know-how
but comes then time when rats will flee their sinking scow.
They're amassing debt as their sole program;
all governments are become a grand flim-flam
but comes an end to every scheming Ponzi scam.
Comes the time when pyramids fail;
each government's a leaking pail
which works no longer well with which to bail.
Such Ponzi schemes are simple traps;
they preach their promises but then collapse,
while politics works frantically to keep it longer under wraps.
A day before such schemes are done,
such Ponzi schemers lies are spun
with words which commonsense alone would quickly shun.
"We're running out of cash," they'll scream;
all governments have raked their cream
from the top, which is this story's common theme.
They've spent today and, too, tomorrow;
these schemes will soon neither beg nor borrow
more than the well known end of storied Ponzi'd sorrow.
Ponzi schemes are doomed, we've known;
governments' debts creak, crack and groan
and their best intentions are soon to be overthrown.
Ponzi states the obvious by examples which should have enlightened us; governments finance is but Ponzi'd hocus pocus. These are the Ponzi states we're in;
governments which once were thin
are fattened for a slaughter which shortly shall begin.
The counters of coin "...it's all just one big lie." Disgraced financier Bernard Madoff, December 2008 The counters of coin
purloin what they can
as counters of cash
are brash with a plan
to feather their nest
like the rest of their clan.
Rake from from the bottom
and rake from the top,
and build up the pyramid
to swill from the top,
for that last sucker in
might bring it full stop.
Prune not the hedge,
for it will on its own
prune all of its growth
that never was shown
to be certain or true
for funds will have flown
away without clue for so it is shown.
Trust, as commodity,
is not without price,
and often not trustworthy
and often not nice;
fool me once and
more fool me twice
but fool me again?
I'll not be fooled thrice.
For this the coin counters
Ferret and hunt
For new naive prey
for their pyramid stunt.
Will it be you?
For it shall not be me
who falls for the game
of the coin counters' spree.
Fat, fat government "I want that glib and oily art, / To speak and purpose not." (William Shakespeare, King Lear. Act I. Sc. 1.) Fat, fat government
Won't get thin.
O my gosh,
What a state it's in!
Waddling and weighty,
Larded with grease,
Corpulent, paunchy,
It seeks increase.
Mad, mad government
Can't play fair.
O my gosh,
Its emperor's bare!
Draped with promises
As talk is cheap;
It grubs for cash
And its price is steep.
Vain, vain government
In its mirror,
O my gosh,
It can't get clearer!
Self-absorbed Pooh-Bahs,
Vainglorious types,
Self-important
Yet filled with gripes.
Bad, bad government
Stuffed with debt,
O my gosh,
But what comes yet?
Its high and its mighty
Seem flummoxed and foiled
For each of their schemes
Is deeply soiled.
Poor, poor government
Begs for "more."
O my gosh,
That's what's in store!
Taking the lion's share,
Calling it fair,
Drawing folks in
To its lion's lair.
Crass, crass government
Wipes the floor.
O my gosh,
It's asking for more!
Deceit, chicanery,
Duplicitous schemes,
Government is quite
Not what it seems.
Fat, fat government
Spins its spin.
O my gosh,
What a state we're in!
We've got nothin' to do We've got nothin' to do, let's protest;
We've got nothin' to do, let's march.
Let's wave our silly slogans
Under some war memorial arch.
Let's speak truth to power
Unless it's us that lies,
And fight for nothin' special,
In costumes and disguise.
Let's storm some barricades,
Some outer walls and tower,
Rebel against authority,
Unless our Joe's in power.
If some one else makes protest
We'll organize against,
And shout and whoop and holler
As if we are incensed.
We've got nothin' to do, let's protest;
We've got nothin' to do, let's march.
Let's wave our silly signs
Under some war memorial arch.
And when it's done and over
We drink and laugh and cheer
And think that we are somethin' hot
And cool like cheap, chilled beer.
Oh, poor ennui's got nothin' to do....
Senator Crooked and Congressman Hoax Senator Crooked came to speak and oh he spoke so well,
of nothing much and nothing less and nothing much to tell
Except to say how much he cared and felt with deep concern
what every voter thought he should for with them he would yearn
For every wish and every need and every want they had,
and for these all he said to them that he would sure be glad
To heap up all the spoils and loot that he would for them gain
if only they would vote for him this time and once again.
His term was marked by service most to his inner clan
as if when speaking to the folks that was his erstwhile plan,
But when election time came round this evidence did fade
into "nothing" blather by which to fool the folks is made
From nothing much and nothing less and nothing much to tell
except to say how much he cares and feels so very well
Of all the stresses, all the strains of the voting folk
who regularly believe in him as if he were no joke.
But joke he was and joke he is and joke he will yet be
until the little voting folk awaken thence to see
That Crooked has no interest in average little folks
except to use them as he will with Congressmen like Hoax.
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