I guess I caught the ****.

I always thought I might.
Ever since this whole calamity started,
I thought I might end up with it.
I figured that it was just my kind of luck.

The Mean 19 came home to roost.

We were lucky enough to spit it out
14 days later.

It might not even matter,
apparently boredom
&
the greater good
don’t sit well with very many folks.

‘Mandate?’
‘What kind of ****** **** is that?’
‘I want a ******* cheeseburger!’

So,
here they come,
out into our careful weekend wars.

Our mission,
clandestine.

Theirs,
to be casualties before the first round
is fired.
They crash the party,
as loud and overbearing
as a congress of baboons.

They’ll make sure this lasts forever.

‘He brought back football, you know!’
‘Made a lot of us real proud!’

Really?

Well, I’ll be a fly on ****,
or
the head of The Vice President of The United States;
whichever you prefer.

How we howled!

All the while, some 22 y/o marketing genius saw
dollar signs in an investment of fly-swatters
with our team’s logo on it!

‘It’s a liberal-on-the-attack conspiracy’
they cried!
‘Those Socialist ******* knew that fly would be there.’
‘I bet they’d been training flies for months.’

Go ahead,
shout from the rooftops.
Let everyone know what you’ll wear or won’t wear,
how you’ll vote,
how it won’t matter if you do,
or don’t.

For God’s sake,
forget everything you’ve ever been told
&
just shut your stupid mouths.

Cast your ballots quickly and quietly,
then cast yourselves
into the sea.

You’ll never win anyway,
it’s not in the cards.

The deck is stacked against
the likes of us,
&
THEY cheat better than
we could ever hope to.

Go to sleep.
Wake up.
Go to work.
Come home.
Cook dinner.
Eat dinner.
Clean up.
Watch some TV
or
*******.

Nothing really changes anyway.

After all,
there’s no more Van Halen,
is there?
So,
you might as well…

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2020