I watched a show by Richard Dawkins,
(I love my atheistic squawkin's)
and he observed how we've improved
the more religion's been removed.
Now, there's no greater fan than me
of love and peace and harmony
but soon these thoughts will just seem trippy
like skinheads listening to a hippy,
'cause he got old and he forgot
the little fact we overshot
and he forgot that life grows cheap
at times the clover isn't deep.
Such harmony will never do
with ten to feed and food for two
and bigotry's more suited for
survival in the resource war.
The dark ages, we find, are not
renowned for gentleness of thought;
your attitudes may shift, perhaps;
recall the war; recall the ****,
and dogma helps you stay the course.
Religion's coming back in force.

Don't expect as things unfold
that you'll do better hoarding gold
You're only safe while you don't squeak
and when some's spent you've let it leak
and soon you'll learn that trade is brisk
in others to assume the risk
and they'll show up and they'll propose
to cut off all your children's toes
until you're ready to expose
and that's the root of my belief
that wealth will only bring you grief
and why you're wiser, I believe,
to learn the skills to loot and thieve.

Here's how it is; this poem is mine;
I'm going to take some time and whine.
Of all the things life could have stored
I'm the guy with the sandwich board
'cause it doesn't take a man that clever
to see that we can't grow forever,
and though all people aren't agreed
it's clear to me where things will lead,
so when is the time that a man stand tall
if not when our wars will soon seen small?
So I made the choice to join the throng
of the sayers of doom, 'most always wrong
and have gained myself some small renown
as the sideshow act of the crying clown.

Having heard it fans man's fires
having something he desires,
I set my heart on wishing for
what no man ever wished before,
and then one day I heard the news
that stars have different shades and hues
so now I wish for better eyes
for seeing candy-sprinkle skies.

I thought it best to keep in touch
with why the old aren't paid as much.
At first I didn't think it cool
one making more straight out of school
but firstly it's a better bet
the old will die upon the set.
Your parts, of course, have had their fun;
they'll fail someday; it just takes one.
It's not the most auspicious sign
when you began your long decline
before computers came on line
and bosses ought to hear alarms
when Uncle Sam extends his arms
'cause motivation hits the red
when someone else will buy the bread.
There's reasons that the old make less;
my salary makes sense, I guess,
and now as if to prove the point
I've got an urge to leave the joint.

We're a bunch of frogs in a giant ***
with the slightest clue it's getting hot
and the presidential choice we've got:
One is a current giant cog
with the same old tired horse to flog
who joined the fight with the other dog
who's  psychopathic demagogue
and neither understands the game
but they think they do and they both proclaim
that they're the best to fan the flame
so we'll get to boil just the same
and it's not an easy choice to make
which poison pill is best to take.

We're trying to decide how our leadership's placed
so we can do something that all have embraced.
We thought of a pole or a tree or a post,
but just a few folk would enjoy it at most.
A head on a stick is to some people's taste,
though it seems that the body's a bit of a waste,
but I was suggesting an alternate route,
on the overpass, say, on the morning commute,
so that folks have to swerve or they're hitting a boot
and revel as one at the crop of strange fruit.