I’d like our employees to deunionize
So the rich folks might get all that they deserve
As Governor, I keep my eyes on the prize
Because if I don’t, they won’t grade on the curve
Of home schoolers present, of Colin’s old lies,
At Pete P’s discretion, my old age will swerve
To what has become of state troopers on call
At plutocrats’ bidding, or no one’s at all.
First thing a principle does is kill someone,
A 911 9 year old who sought to lead,
But lacked firepower, or choice words that would shun
All those who proclaim from conservative screed
To suggest our government demands a gun
To play up our fears, or deny those in need.
We came to this hate and they say we abhor
But election’s next year, and killing’s their core.
I feel in a time of nutjobs quite bereft
Of big anger, or of trying, seems my code
Propels me ever onwards to eager heft
Of unspoken electoral motherlode.
News cycling up and down renders me an eft
Squinting, burrowing, not quite finding the road.
Where once we drove supposing it vast unbound
Nothing passed at less than sixty, hare to hound.
Slimy spills of yesterday resume once more
To reconnoiter, with lessons learned again
As hard as pelicans, who in dying bore
DC consumers, across the nation spin
To loiter, while a sweeps month keeps a score
Of catching the anger, why wouldn’t that win?
In stimy thrill, a brown specked tumor might say
Deploy your plumes of damage, and shrink away.
We are a land full of posthumous degrees.
For those whose fate we can no longer control
Or animals not supporting industries
Who wash out a late someone drowning in coal
A gallon, a barrel, the scuttling of pleas
To seem overstretched, to redeem out of role
A yeardley once killed is beyond such amends
And measures the spillage while just among friends.
We are all light skinned with Negro dialect
What we want is leaders who are more than shit
And don’t see bankers as a befitting sect
And won’t be just wankers who want one more hit
When their heads are as high as their laps erect
We’ll say they are twinned with the losses bit.
Divorced are we now from what passes for fame
Of course our linger has no skin in the game.
The best of this year was a journey to Oz
Where grownups reside and advise without spin
How best to make due with subordinate clause
And go beyond shit to where pearls aren’t a sin
Yet death slapped down two, who deserved some applause
From those on the sidelines, an army all in.
What peers in the wind is the sight of our times
Remaining in view, and remembered in rhymes.
Whenever I hear the new Father Coughlin
Say remind me of what he came to stand for
The priestly anger, the telegraphed coughin’
At Jews and The Other who weren’t at the core
Of what had been lost, ’round our health care coffin
Is how they make fear seem yummy and score
Today, unremembered is how far we’ve come
Or have left to go, to unstick hate, by gum!
Took 42 years to get around to it, but the organist’s been added to the two other Procol Harum bandmates receiving credit and royalties for the 60s classic A Whiter Shade Of Pale:
Gorilla observes: “This has never been a problem for artists like Los Bozos Bravos. They share all the royalties, because they know no money is the object. RIAA calls this the Fairly Useless Doctrine”.
Normally, I post my Bozo Songs to my website. I’ve listed the 2009 Bozo Songs link in the Blogroll.
Here’s the latest one I wrote:
Sunni Late Payments Are The New MBS: A Bozo Ottava Rima Song
The King of Pop is dead, and I still don’t care
Farrah’s gone, but my right hand remains quite strong
Getting older is ahead of what may scare
Health care cons, and a country going wrong
Nothing bolder left than rhetoric to spare
Sons and daughters dying, this decade’s Hmong
72 hours of nostalgic craze
For what we once were, or villages to raze.
