Lies! Money is greed, greed is money,
Credit is given to the wrong types of people.
The stupid ones who were not taught
How to behave with their newfound freedom
And systems of fake income!
Don't spend what you do not have,
But they believed they had everything.
Love. Money. Sex. Fame and fortune, the world
Was in their hands!
Until it all crashed down in 1929
The wise head becomes a fool sans money,
While the goon with quids around to throw
Assumes a sage--the mayor of phony county.
Why should the prince of letters anyhow
Be in want--lacking in substance great,
Flourishing instead in some wretched state?
Yet the politicians who run down the economy
And men of baser thoughts that make heaven's
Hallowed eyes drop tears by their steamy
Smut businesses and those of unholy deals
Do seem to prosper much in this awkward
World,with those that vaunt at the Lord.
Unprovided -- the pleasure of pleasing
is, after all, a painting that resolves
the irritating swings of a taxed evolution.
It seems that energetic trainees
of the future keep firm invitations
on the list of approved measures.
Yet living is not a guesstimate, reality
is attached by humor to the document
that simply reads "I'm not sure."
Imagine civilization as eight-years-old.
By want, business drains, not one laugh,
but the replacement of being one's own.
Shaped, the body is wary of the
counselor and satisfied by the character
of a farmer and time away from scorn.
Hang a map of sensibility in the kitchen,
where bare eyes can respond -- tokens of
action are the door prize for motivation.
The lessons not yet learned are musical.
Let there be
Let it rain
All over the world.
Let there be
All over the world.
Calms me down.
Has my back.
Let there be ☮.
Let the violent cease.
In our hearts.
☮ keeps us together
So we don’t fall apart.
$ brings destruction
But we need you.
And I still love you so much.
You make me crazy and such but
$ I love 2 kiss and hug.
$ is like a drug.
You make me crazy.
Make me want to be a thug
Keep you safe.
Don’t play when it comes to my cake.
☮ will never understand
The love and respect
I have for you.
☮ & love in everything you do.
You’re the only one who feels what I am going through.
But you keep the ☮
Make sure I stay on my feet.
$ & ☮
Don’t know what I would do without you.
Longevity with $.
And I will see you soon.
There's no shame, in removing your shoes
We just don't want the plague
well We'll just wait till it's gone away
So I'm eating out of your hand
Magnum grapes, and
The last look from planes
And other things shared leaving me in my own bubbly daze
The last invitation
To the hero to show
and when he doesn't
we'll all just go
I look up to everything you are.
My vision of clarity.
I've loved you for so long.
My song of familiarity.
I believe in you.
Even when you didn't ask me to.
I found my prosperity with you.
A river of hope, flowing endlessly.
And wings dripping with oil
Alongside carelessness and greed
On mounding piles and pools of spoil.
Our plaguing touch
And monuments to gluttinous reach
While, with our feet, turning sand
Over half-buried waste on the beach.
For those among us who lived by the rules,
Lived frugal lives of pubis-scratching desperation;
For those who sustained a zombie-like state for 30 or 40 years,
For these few, our lucky few—
We bequeath an interactive Life-Alert emergency dogtag,
Or a dog, a colossal beast of a pet,
A humongus Harlequin Dane dog to feed,
For that matter, why not buy a few new cars before you die?
Your home mortgage is dead and buried.
We gave you senior-citizen rates for water, gas & electricity—
“The Big 3,” as they are known in certain Gasoline Alley-retro
Neighborhoods among us,
All this and more, had you lived small,
Had you played by the rules for Smurfs & Serfs.
We leave you the chance to treat your grandkids
Like Santa’s A-List clientele,
“Good ‘ol Grampa,” they’ll recollect fondly,
“Sweet Grammy Strunzo,” they will sigh.
What more could you want in retirement?
You’ve enabled another generation of deadbeat grandparents,
And now you’re next in line for the ice floe,
To be taken away while still alive,
Still hunched over and wheezing,
On a midnight sleigh ride,
Your son, pulling the proverbial Eskimo sled,
Down to some random Arctic shore,
Placing you gently on the ice floe.
Your son; your boy--
A true chip off the igloo, so to speak.