The DSM likes to label
everything that it is able:
If you think your temper’s bad
or ‘cause of troubles you are sad
or you defy the moral order,
remember that it’s a disorder.

Once we had the Seven Deadlies,
but now they’re only symptom medleys.
If people would take responsibility--
learn acceptance, and humility--
they might cure what’s made them ill.
The answer’s not found in a pill.

Disaster strikes and leaves its scars;
a sympathetic ear goes far
to help someone to heal from pain.
It might be a disease
when victims find there’s no surcease
from memories, from guilt that stains.
But time and talk could heal those scars.
Taking pills goes just so far.

It’s all genetic, so they claim.
But when you look at histories
of patients sad and suicidal
some things all seem to be the same:
A loss, abuse or child neglect;
much sorrow, guilt and pain abject.
Can it just be coincidental?
And if it’s a glitch that’s only chemical
why is the healing incremental?
Why aren’t patients all soon happy
when they take their magic pill?
I believe what makes us ill
is more than random


Pharmacology’s limitations
are seldom spoken to the patients.
A quick fix is what we’re sold,
the risks and chances we’re not told.

Not far from the ocean, not far from the town,
the South Beach turkeys roam the hospital grounds.
They serve no purpose, they do as they please,
they preen and they strut in the salty sea breeze.
Sometimes they just stand and look around.
They find tasty grubs in the trees and the ground.
Sometimes they chase, sometimes they cluck;
they do as they please; they don’t give a f*
It’s a bird’s life, on the grounds of South Beach.
Perhaps there’s a lesson that these birds could teach--
no need to hurry, just do what you need.
Fly if you can, or just sit in a tree.
Watch the passersby as they go to and fro.
Or just stand around and watch the grass grow.
Some thought they were pests and wanted them gone;
but to **** them for no reason would just be wrong.
At times I have thought that they might be tasty--
wild birds raised in nativity—with stuffing and gravy.
Surely much better than from the factory farm--
(and it’s a shame that to those birds we cause so much harm).
But shooting a turkey who sits on a lawn
would mean calling the cops, with their guns drawn.
So the turkeys live on, and I sing their song.
I’d miss their feathered glory, if one day they were gone.

Margaret, are you grieving
over Hillary’s unseating?
The victory you expected
was denied, and you are dejected.
Fears and tears are your companions
as you grieve for undocumented transients.
But no tears you shed in years gone by
when bombs fell on children from drones on high.
Nor did you protest the stop and frisk
or needless deaths of black men at risk.
Slaughter in Gaza was no cause
for you to protest, or even to pause
from your Twitter feed or drink at Starbucks.
(The world knows you didn’t give two *****.)
I sit and watch the roosting chickens
who have returned from the wide world sickened.

Age ain’t nuthin' but a number, they said.
Only each of those numbers
means you’re one step closer to being dead.
Sure, I can still wear a short dress.
But why would I—
there’s no need to impress.
The hormones have fled, and in their stead
I have wisdom and serenity. I’ve said goodbye
to the burning desire to coax someone into bed.
Yes, I could hike the Himalayas, if I try;
but my arthritis means
every step of the way, I’d cry.
I play the guitar, but don’t get too far,
before I feel it in my elbow.
Didja notice Jimmy Page
rubs his arm?I guess he didn’t get the memo--
the one that says it’s just a number, your age.

I’m here to tell you age makes you humbler.
NO ONE my age says “age is nothing but a number.”
Numbers mean something, they add and subtract;
by the time you’re my age, you’re in your second act.
In fact the second act is closing, I’m moving on to the third—
the final act--where you’ve got to sum it all up, but, rest assured:
I’m not pining for my lost youth,
when I had better health,
but less truth.

My liberal friends, who love to preach
who deign to enlighten and to reach
the lower orders with their light
to guard what’s left and set things right
must deal with recent facts unkind
which threaten the Progressive mind.

Your narrative took a massive hit
so **** it in—acknowledge it.
Your media, misinformed and lame,
now limping, has to bear the blame
for polling as they hoped to hear
leading (and speaking) from the rear.

Indeed; you claim we won by Hate?
in this you tend to under-rate
your sanctimonious fusillades.
Your nemesis, against great odds
was voted for by US, and won.
(So sorry that God’s will was done.)
Our diverse voters clinched the fight.
You thought we had none on the Right?
Hispanics? Thirty-odd percent.
And black votes came in (heaven-sent),
more numerous than they were for Mitt
so shut your pie-hole. Deal with it.
Without them Trump could not have won;
we’d be deprived of all this fun!
The people did not buy the goods
you foisted on our neighborhoods.
And patriots now meet brand-new friends:
political correctness ends
when Truth joins hands with common sense.
The truth will ALWAYS bring offense
to smug elitist hypocrites
and democratic counterfeits
projecting their neurotic fears
upon the Right. Oh the things one hears.
We’re fascist and unfit to live,
we eat our children; never give
a **** for the poor or a prayer for a soul.
The “War on Women” our evil goal.
We hear ourselves described as bigots.
Bilious brew–and we must swig its
bitterness in constant sips
as insult pours from your spiteful lips.

We’re rigid, white, misogynistic
(my, how you wax antagonistic.
Thought you were all about tolerance
and doing that Multi-Kulti dance…)
We’re gender-biased (and repressed)
unkind, unwise, uncouth, unblessed.
What-- since we don't like Globalism,
technoid One-World Kommunism
we dwell in some hateful **** state?
(You blather on…it’s getting late
to re-use all your left-wing smears
which barely reach our deafened ears.)

As young folks like to say: tough *****.
You’re stranded outside the holy city.
Our vast right-wing epiphany
out-sung your PC tyranny.

One nation under assault,
one nation under pressure,
one nation claiming greatness against
an outdated measure.
With liberty and justice stockpiled commodities
and legions of disgruntled youth
left to deal with the atrocities.
One nation under-loved
One nation over-policed
One nation claiming Jesus
wearing the tell-tale mark of the beast.
With hate in the left hand, and hate in the right,
and both hands balled up like we're dying to fight.
A New Day, they call this perpetual night
This suffocating darkness that chokes out the light
And EVERYBODY THINKS THAT THEIR SIDE IS RIGHT.

One nation underwhelmed by the policies they chose
One hypocrisy of a democracy, calling their own stink a rose
One thing after another, no wonder the kids are cynics now,
thinking "You CAN'T make it better, WE don't know how."
Love is lost in the struggle between apathy and hate
America, the beautiful.  America, the great.
America, the fractured paragon,
We cling to ghosts of a changing time
We've fallen for the distractions, and
our pedestal is too high to climb.

Oh brothers, oh sisters, what else can we do?
If you'll look out for me, and I look out for you,
just a ripple in this pool of ****
may clear the waters, just a bit.
But as long as there are white votes
black votes
Latino votes
left votes
right votes
there'll be no vote of confidence
in the future of these divided states.
We'll rip ourselves apart,
tear out our own heart
waving our flags the whole time
and claiming no blame for the divide.
God Bless America,
and do it quick.
All sides of this society
are dying or sick.