Spoiled sick by doctor Spock,
the self-appointed baby doc -
psychology he just invented
decreed that they should be contented.
Did education, nearly free,
evoke some reciprocity?
Their children's education loan -
they'll get to pay it on their own.
The resource base that they'd inherit -
they chose to use it not to share it.
Their heads can't fathom simple facts -
what made us great was higher tax.
They know it's better not to share.
They won't be killing medicare.
They're satisfied with what they've got.
The infrastructure's left to rot.
The goal they're trying to fulfill:
to pass the kids their every bill.
Baby boomers, as you see,
have sociopathology.
Our ruination - all it took:
some good intentions and a book.

Mention eugenics, you'll empty the room;
People assume you're the prophet of doom.
This time, before it's a total rout,
wait a second, hear me out.
Here is where, if you listen to me
in a few generations, humans could be.
Sad brown eyes, golden hair,
happy sleeping anywhere.
Great disposition.  Wonderfully nice.
Great white teeth, a breeze to de-lice.
We'd all love nature, swimming like beavers
once we've evolved into Golden Retrievers.

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.

Some people living with purpose un-rife
seek to discover the meaning of life,
but I'm pretty sure having meaning assures
there has to be something to which it refers,
and it quickly occurs to a person who thinks
to get to the meaning you follow the links
'til finally you get to the stuff with the fizz
where nothing has meaning and stuff simply is,
where simple existence is fully enough
and things don't need meaning like second-class stuff,
and finding no reference despite looking far
just might mean the end's where you already are.

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?

I'm curing the problem the best way I've found.
I opened the breech and I slipped in a round,
this one for my darling, still lying in bed;
I ponder the things this will do to her head.
The way that she's done me, no doubt she's deserving
this coffee machine with its cute little serving.

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.

Things down past Flagstaff got nasty, no doubt,
more heat coming in than was getting back out.
It was maybe the 20th year of the drought;
valley fever came in, pretty much won that bout.
Gas prices went north, cooling systems went south;
things go **** up, you get down in the mouth.
Finally, unable to take any more
they pointed it north, ended up at our door.
We're already full; not a thing we could do;
fed them a meal, took a woman or two,
told lies about work up in Kalamazoo.

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.

Let's speak for a moment of Timmy McVeigh.
Clinton proclaimed him a coward. No way.
A coward ain't putting his life  on the line
'cause government ain't the ideal design.
Quite a courageous and capable sort,
he blew up a building and cut some lives short.
He wanted to get our attention. He did -
to hear his agenda and do as he bid.
It seems like we heard him; he's one of the ones
for trading assistance for freedom and guns.
Perhaps if I bombed you, you'd hear what I say,
but I ain't no hero like Timmy McVeigh.

It starts the day a man's conceived:
Some cells die off and get relieved;
the molecules of which they're made
will interact and be remade;
electron flow is interlaced
and atoms find themselves replaced;
regardless how your plans are laid
your thoughts evolve, your memories fade;
the only thing that's there to stay
is coded in your DNA,
so in the deepest sense it's true:
You are your twin; your twin is you.

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 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.

Another bad hombre rode into the town in the search for a girl and a dance,
but it seemed Wild Bill ****** the air from the room and the gals wouldn't give him a glance.
It didn't seem fair and then shots filled the air and there didn't seem much of a chance
that the thing, in the light of the number of holes, Bill was likely to leave in, was pants.

Elections serve to shed a light
on mental skill, our sorry plight,
and some may find it rather sad
that half of us are clearly mad,
but don't assume, as some folks do,
this means the others have a clue;
we'd get, the point should not be lost,
the same result if coins were tossed.