Let the poor youth fight and die.
Not my children, don’t even try.
You won’t subject them to ill health
Not as long as I’ve got my wealth.
Let the children of poverty bleed
We rich have the gold we need.
We were the guilty, and all that meant,
WE label poor children as “not innocent”.

Why not cheat and **** the weak and poor?
Isn’t that what the caste system is for?
We are the strong and the righteous ones.
Besides, ripping off people is so much fun.
We get to buy fancy suits and sleek cars.
If these are not meant for us, then what are?
We’re the ones smart enough to write
Sneakily worded laws that favor the right.

And we are bright enough to see right quick
The most of the populace is politically sick.
They vote for whomever we tell them to.
We just label the opposition commies or Jews.
We have convinced them all that we are real
And the liberals? Well, let them squeal.
We just take every thing they say about us
And say it was their doing, and let them cuss.

Half of the country was so incredibly ignorant
They had no idea what our promises meant.
So they let us put into place a crazy faker
Who put wealth in the hands of the takers.
He and his party was sure they could do it;
That the lazy populace would fail to pursue it.
So end the end, they could just stay as dumb
In the ensuing holocaust that was to come.

Hinky Jinky, Stinky Pinky
The One Percent will play.
Squirrely Shirley Hurly Burly
In the full light of day.
Hop them, bop them;
You can’t stop them.
They’re never going away.
Crying, trying, always lying,
They count on your ignorance.
Hinky Jinky, Stinky Pinky
Wham bam, thank you man.
Daffy, laffy, slappy happy.
What’s the hap? What’s the plan?

Cooked books, buncha crooks.
Loosie, goosey, where’s the noosey?
Flakey, fakey, jump in the lakey.
Take and take, oil of snake,
How much of this can good people take?
Scream and shout, let it all out
Stick it, we’ll show up and picket
You’ll try to trick it, we’ll buy you a ticket
On a rail, feathered, or off to jail.
Subliminal criminals, sentences too minimal
We’ll feel best if you and the rest must
Sell your houses and cars from behind bars.

Our God is really excellent
At death and genocide.
How we love to celebrate
How many folks have died.
We always feel better about life
And the wonderful heavenly joy
When we’ve murdered some foreigner's wife.
Or when we put to death girls and boys.

It is so commendable of humans
To execute those who are different
Or if they commit the cardinal sin
Of being some kind of sick dissident
Who refuses to do what we want
Like maybe lying down and acquiescing
Or refusing to shut up and play along with
Our political posturing and window dressing.

And is is all sacred and very holy;
Every bit of it is hidden by claims
That all genocide and bigotry
Is committed in our God’s name,
Unless the genocide and prejudice
Is directed anywhere near us.
The we whip out our Bibles and cry
And make a self-righteous fuss.

The Golden Rule applies to all
Except heathens and non-Caucasians.
And then it’s a noose, SWAT team or
At least an *** for every occasion.
Because killing people is terrible;
It is simply not the proper way
To deal with all of life’s issues,
Unless we want to, then it’s okay.

And all of it is by The Good Book
If the right verses are selected.
The American Bible is written to insure
The right people are not neglected.
And everyone should worship
And join the Living God’s legions
And be exactly like he lived life:
A blond-haired, blue eyed Norwegian.

I gag when those who treat our flag
As nothing more than a rag and tag
Along with the Klanners waving banners
From the war against our country;
Their bad manners somehow a badge
They hold up as a symbolic gesture
As they put equality out to pasture
So they can separate, segregate,
Discriminate, and call for assassination
The leaders of our nation that disagree
Like you and me, if we dare object.

It is them I reject, deflect and yes, object
To in the loudest, most heated terms.
They are  germs that sicken us all
And drive us toward a fall, thinking
That they can rebuild the land
So they have the upper hand
And the rest of us can just whistle
If we think this will never come true.
It is so most dangerous for me and you
If they get their way so you can’t say
The slightest word against them.

This is the gem they want for their crown;
To put anyone down who says otherwise
And to freely point to the other guys
And order their destruction and deaths
With what they believe are sainted breaths
But are really exhalations and perorations
Of the devil on earth here to challenge your birth
If you don’t fit their template of acceptability
And deny their culpability in the holocaust
Their evil machinations will ultimately cost.

I had received dozens of rejection letters most I can imagine the reactions these ******* yuppie ******* reading were thinking while saying to themselves .
Jesus ******* Christ I'm glad this guy doesn't live near by.

They hated writers yet they made there living off them .
Much like teachers except with a far better income and much better high dollar vices .

I worked my *** off they sat on there's and decided what was in .
I still read them trying to maintain my buzz and not slip into a coma
from the ******* they deemed worthy.

I was on my second drink when the I read the words yet still like seeing a car accident in front of your very own eyes I could not believe what the **** I was reading .

It wasn't so much the article it was who was in it.
I had been writing long enough to learn one thing try your best to avoid
other so called writers .

And there he was  quoted with a fake ******* age was a ******* who was neither a writer or in my thoughts anything more than a pile of dog **** by the highway .

I don't need to mention his name hell being mentioned in any forum was more ego stroking than the ******* deserved.
But it was then I truly knew the New Yorker had went from high class rag to street level ***** selling her *** to anyone with the change .

Old ******* was there about twelve years younger and in his full out of his gourd glory.
I can imagine the interview one soulless **** stain talking to another .
Speaking on something he could not even do himself .
******* write!

I was a drunk a ******* who ran his mouth and dared anyone to try to shut it.
I was a lot of things but no matter how others viewed me I was always
a writer .

I lived it, Breathed it  paid my dues fifteen times over .
Yeah it bit my *** to see a overrated wind bag featured in a rag truly great writers had struggled  to be published in.

It showed you the great decline the social media madness great writing was no longer a requirement skill wasn't needed either .
It was all superficial ******* smoke and mirrors and a nice *** .

I took another drink picked up the revolver stuck it to my head
pulled the trigger .
Nothing this time!
Looks like id live another day.

I'd love to sit at table over a few drinks play a relaxing game of Russian roulette with the ******* I'm writing about.
I wonder would he speak so boldly in front of another man
or simply **** his pants and cry like a modern  overrated
so called artist.

Yeah I was passionate with my hate .
I was anything but a modern writer and anyone sitting across
from me better dam sure know I didn't play games .

Well least not any that were safe .

I stopped reading the article when a friend called .
Hey you read that article on you know who?
Yeah I replied just finished it.

What did you think?
Well least when you run out of toilet paper you got something to wide your *** with .

My friend laughed .
You know your not right they said still laughing.
Yeah I said looking at the gun still on the table.

You truly don't have a clue.