David recently became an Outsider Writer. Here is one reason why:
The Cat, the Veep, Bovines and Green Cheese.
The crux of the biscuit is that our priorities are skewed.
We can put a man on the moon, but was it the right man? And what about that cow? Maybe we should have put a cowboy up there permanent like.
There’s a song on the radio about a cat in the cradle with a silver spoon, and I know that cat. I’ve been through his crib.
Sixteen Hundred Penn Ave, I’ve been. He’s got the spoon— sterling blinders too. Him and Nero in there just a fiddlin’. And forget his bull, because when you strike the shepherd, the flock will scatter. And believe me, the sheep don’t like it.
I am tired of getting fleeced. I say we get the flock out of here. We’ve all been sheared, and the wool went to Sri Lanka to be made into technicolor dream coats for some sheik named Yusef while Joseph from Louisiana stands naked, stoned, and starving sad. In Houston.
Somebody had the right idea. Please, give the cat with the snow job a blow job so we can impeach his ignorant ass.
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Want more? Read two more Agit Prop 101 poems from David!
Monkey Don’t
The quadrennial quandary, choosing between the lesser of two lechers as they bisect bilateral boundaries, splitting atoms and Adams, exporting middle America in the making of little Americas.
(They forgot where Omaha and Toledo came from in the first place.)
Tracing leaden lines on a masquerade map, grids on a glow-lamp globe. Trying to split the geo from the political, trying to loosen these foundlings without paying the requisite fee.
Storing away their matchless marbles, trying to divide the socio from the economic, never allowing our children to dance, not even in their hearts.
We’re dreaming under stripened skies, waking up with spangled eyes. Teach that choosing between the lesser of two evils makes us evil.
See no, hear no,
say no. ------------------------------
Guns ‘n Butter
I’d been having an affair with a hydrocarbon medusa.
A crude relationship based on heavy metal m.r.e.’s and gunshot residue.
I wanted her to meet my folks but she couldn’t come inside,
said their roof blocked out the sky, said she could only climax on her back with the starlight glancing off the soles of her feet.
At water’s edge Medusa pulled me atop of her. But as I plunged in she was cut on a splinter of beach glass.
She bled out on the sand and left me lying in a pool of thirty weight. A classic conundrum.
It was infatuation; I could never get enough of her. But my mother is happier now. She says a hydrocarbon medusa was too old for me anyway.
Last update : 21-06-2007 17:05
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By: Michael Grover (Registered) on 23-06-2007 20:38