I got up this morning; what can I say?
The sun shone down on a beautiful day.
I sipped a nice coffee, enjoyed a nice burp,
the ground squirrels peeped and the birds were achirp.
The deer were all dapper.  The views were astounding.
Beside me my woman and red boy were bounding.
Okay, okay, I know what you're thinking.
No, I don't mean it and yes, I've been drinking.

I was home in my culvert; you know the one, friend;
saw a hungry Canadian face at each end.
Good thing I thought they might turn up the heat;
the snares that I set ****** them up by the feet.
Now, at long last, we've got something to eat
if you don't mind the taste of Canadian meat.

In some fields none deny,
Russian masters still loom high.
If popularity is the test
one artist stands above the rest.
The caps of the world, we reverently doff
to the great Mikhail Kalashnikov.

We heard it said since before there was time,
let the punishment fit the crime,
so if you do a crime of limited scope,
we'll hang you up with a limited rope.

Hey, it's the stone age; living's our job.
We're always busy, no spare time to rob.
I'm huntin' and daddin', you're farmin' and mommin';
don't need no stinking interests in common.

I'm sure you've observed it, that thing that they say:
Experience tends to just get in the way.
If I'm in the mood for philosophy talks
I don't go to scholars from Stanford or Ox;
I'll turn right around and go down to the docks
and get some philosophy out of the box.
I don't fool around with those **** engineers;
their time was just wasted to study for years.
I just grabbed a fellow out drinking some beers,
said I needed a rig that is spacious, and yet
can climb like a Willys and turn like a Vette.
He said he'd deliver December the third;
if there was a problem I'm sure I'd have heard.
And if I was feeling some pain pretty keen
from down by my liver or maybe my spleen
I'd talk to a fellow I met at the zoo,
say just cut in here, take a minute or two;
if you see a bad liver you'll know what to do,
and soon I'd be frisking around like a goat
and coming November, you know how I'll vote.

Perhaps it's best we're dumb, and so
won't anticipate the blow.
Perhaps it's really just a kindness
that we have such a streak of blindness,
that we're so steeped in our denial
our faces never lose their smile,
remaining cloaked in joviality,
a full divorce from all reality,
and good our mood is so subdued;
we might be rude if we were clued.
Perhaps it's good we've been so lulled
and live our lives with senses dulled.
Perhaps it serves a higher purpose
that some brain sucker seemed to slurp us
and then quite strangely took the pains
to fill our heads with bovine brains.
Perhaps it's best we're still deceived
without the concept yet conceived
of billions dead, the rest bereaved
and though our race will soon be routed
we still don't know a thing about it.
It could be best; although I doubt it.

Our God has powers that astound;
we know they really have no bound.
Thus, one great thing he can do
is make things false but also true.
You thought I argued, but I wasn't;
it's clear that he exists and doesn't.

Here's what's acknowledged by competent thinkers
while most find more comfort with eyes behind blinkers:
The gold rush is ending and here's what that bids;
six out of seven are hitting the skids.
So, who are the six who are filling these slots?
We could be magnanimous, simply draw lots,
which though it possesses a civilized sound,
ain't how it happens so far as we've found.
Maybe the rich folk who caused it should pay;
maybe the poor simply get in the way.
History shows us how we'll play the game;
we'll find ourselves someone who isn't the same,
someone to hang it on, someone to blame,
someone we don't like the sound of their name,
someone for whom some resentment has grown,
one with possessions you might like to own,
someone who came from a faraway place,
someone you don't have to look in the face.
There's times for survival and times to be fair;
unless you're the chosen you won't have a prayer,
you and your family just boils to lance.
Allow me to send my regrets in advance.

I wasn't there; I didn't see,
but here's the tale as told to me:
A load of buddies concert bound,
four reefers smoked, 2 quarts near downed.
One raised a quart to drink the last
just as a cop went driving past;
he spoke some words up to the sky
and soon a naked man walked by.
The cop thought quick, said "***". They got.
So what's the verdict? God or not?

Numbers are weird; I'm telling you friend;
they start here at zero and go without end
and if that means one thing, one thing at all,
it's no number is big and all numbers are small.
Take the number of atoms in Yellowstone Park,
exponentiate that every tick of a quark
'til the neutrons decay and the photons go dark
and you've still got no number; it's not big at all;
as I told you before, every number is small,
but invert the numbers and don't flip your wig;
discounting zero, all numbers are big.

House on the Mesa

The kind of girl who on each date took
the Kama Sutra and a rate book
might see a mining town to be
financial opportunity.
Whether or not you think that there oughta be,
dough's to be made from the oldest commodity;
if she moves lots of tail and stays out of jail
she can move to the hill when the yuppies all bail.
A change in economy has side effects;
ambitious young fellows may want to change ***.
They best do their manly pro-mining moaning
'fore they start to squeak from de-testosteroning.

You're always evolving for what you are doing,
like big burger eating and bad TV viewing,
inheritance wasting and CO2 spewing
and world undoing and logic eschewing
and though we've been at it for just a short bit
it seems we've already achieved a good fit,
but what we're now sowing we soon will be reaping
and then we'll commence with the read 'em and weeping
and start to evolve for new habits we're keeping
like alley-cat roasting and cold-culvert sleeping
and valuable snatching and cholera catching
and have-a-rough-patching and brain-come-unlatching
and so for a while we will be in a bind
'til the traits of the species become redefined
and the tastes of your offspring begin realigning
with boiled rat dining and garbage pit mining.

Of claims that I've lost it, well, I'm having none;
I'm bright as a fiddle and fit as the sun.
Say what you will and I give this rebuke,
I'm still cool as rain and as right as a cuke,
and though it may seem I'm perturbed now and then,
wet as a mad beet and as red as a hen,
we'll see when the time comes, as surely it will,
when I'm over the weather and under the hill,
who's down in the moon and who's over the dump,
who was dumb as a tack and who sharp as a stump.

The walrus used to find it nice
to spend their summers on the ice
but not so nice this year they felt,
as all the ice contrived to melt,
and they were forced to reconvene
on land with no space in between,
to loll and fight and contemplate
the broader question of their fate,
but none among them made the link
that people put them on the brink,
and those their fate depended on
stifled yet another yawn.