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.
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.
Inquire, Inquire, Inquire but never let slip
How what no one would ask then demeaned us all.
Soon the public option terror triggers grip
At polls, these pols are fated to take a fall
They demonstrate past prologue in losing trips
Up those whose change and hope seems hard to recall.
We’d like to be less hollowed out, but that would mean
Confronting now and then our last mise-en-scene.
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.
