I need to talk about the God Gang.
Some of y’all think it is a good thang.
Well, I am here to tell you it is not.
It’s like the mullet when it was hot.
It’s all about what the majority agrees;
They do it without checking with me.
When it is in, people don’t see it’s bad
But it’s different when it’s a passe’ fad.

I was raised in the Bible Belt Buckle
And I had plenty of rapped knuckles.
I got berated when I would cough
And no way could I ever beat off.
I had to say I believed in Jesus Christ
If not I paid a heavy social price.
I was called some pretty ugly names
And I know the God Gang was to blame.

If you’re young and want to get laid
There is a horrific price to be paid.
You lie and pretend if you’re an atheist
That the other person’s God does exist,
And is the answer to every question.
Do it to get along is my suggestion.
Otherwise you will be called a heathen
As if the God Gang really was believing.

And it goes on to include everything.
Almost like the National Anthem thing.
Before every game, it was the same
Someone stood, invoked a holy name.
At trials on the Bible, I was forced to swear.
I wasn’t a Christian, but they didn’t care.
In a country called The Land Of The free
Actions proved they did not include me.

And political gatherings for which we pay
The God Gang manages to hold sway.
They call on God and even do a prayer
As if God was in the room somewhere
And the politicians didn’t want to offend.
When will this official superstition stuff end?
Someone needs to invent something great
Like an idea of separating church and state.

and in less than two years, I'll be free.
We all will.

The hippie days were rather hard
For a young guy just starting out.
Off- brand jeans and crew-cut hair
Didn’t carry all that much clout.
I was into show tunes and Elvis,
The Beatles were great and new.
I lucked right into the Troubadour
And fell in love with Elton too.

One of my ladies loved Airplane
The other loved the Monkees
The problem was that only one
Was ever approved by junkies.
But I was so squeaky clean
That I was only into cheap coffee.
I swear I could get high as a kite
On Russel Stover’s fine toffee.

But something changed for me
The day I first heard David Bowie.
It sounds kind of childish now
But he was special and so glowy.
He pointed out some dichotomies
Between what was said and done.
At that time we needed something
And Bowie was obviously the one.

I didn’t stick there with his genie
But his genius opened some doors
And affected my art and my poetry
Way back then and forever more.
So then it was Prince, The Doobies,
Aretha Franklin and Annie DiFranco.
And, of course, the one-hit wonders
About eighteen hundred or so.

It wasn’t always about music
This social code of mine.
But music underscored it all
Made even politics toe the line.
We made changes in civil rights
And even affected an evil war.
There is no reason to doubt it.
Music will continue to change more.

The man on TV comes on and says
Zombies might come let's protect our heads
For they eat brains and flesh
I just smile and munch another egg

Laughing at him preach to all
About the hordes of zombies
Taking over the mall
Wearing wellies and summer hats
Eating Mr Jones from the potpourri stall

My laughter drowns out this bleak news
As down the lanes and through the mews
The living dead march right on
Singing the words of the dead soul song

Tears fall down my cheeks
With laughter now that just peeks
Catching my breath there's a knock at the door
Holy hell the zombies want more
Agggggghhhhggg

Why do you darken my door once again?
What is it I've done
to deserve
this
e m  p   t    y    
s      p       a        c         e          ?

To spite you,
I'll welcome you.

To scold you,
I'll embrace your cold.

shiver, shiver

Here you come again,
lancing at my dreams,
my hopes,
my visions,
all of which I want to capture on paper,
but all of which you turn out
like horses from a stable
into the wilderness beyond
the reach of my pen.

Desperate.
It is not your namesake, no;
neither is it mine.

It does not belong to the man who searches for wisdom,
to the girl who bleeds her fingers on typewriter keys.

O, desperation, make me a statue
that others may look upon my emptiness
and feel
whole.

It is better to have haters because you know that they already talking **** about you
Rather than having a good friend that bites you from behind

everyone that is good
                 ^was
is dying

or is already dead.