When the last whole-hearted hero falls
True blooded poet warrior
Who challenged those
That turned cities and homes
Into barren bombed out wastelands,

When the wooden walkways
Are consumed
By the brush,

When the concrete
Cracks from nature’s ****** up,

When the canyons fades
Turning colorful shades
To white, black, and gray,

When the green hummingbirds
Cease the beatings
Of their supersonic wings,

When the tired panther
No longer sleeps
Or rises to drink
From a sweet summer spring
After hunting and eating
Some other wild thing,

When all things living
Start to decay
Then solar winds
wipe them away
In ultraviolet rays
Of destruction and disintegration,

When time forgets
That we ever existed.

Lady said
"Shut up about the storm
else you'll be in one"
Charming, I thought

On Friday, I went to see the Doctor again
To tell her about my depression, my pain
She gave me some new pills, Prozac
Said " If they don't work, come back"

I really hope that they sort me out
I don't want to wait another hour and in 5 minutes be out
With just a prescription in my hand
And that's it, no other plans.

If Wars were Subject
to Copyright

If wars were subject to a copyright -
Then candidates would have to pay a fee
Each time they appeal to the glorious past
When standing for the election, the proceeds
To fall like ****** manna on the dead
Who can never cash the checks anyway

If wars were subject to a copyright -
Then Hollywood movies should pay their dues
Whenever a bold-scripted commando,
Body-waxed muscles glistening with makeup,
Advances up Hamburger-Helper Hill
With a patriotic song on his lipstick

If wars were subject to a copyright –
The generals’ memoirs, the admirals’, too,
Would pay to lighten the blighted young lives
Of soul-fragmented lads whose pain and blood
Gave the air-conditioned another star
And unctuous applause at the officers’ club

If wars were subject to a copyright -
The President would have to pay his bill
Each time he banged the lectern for a war,
The glorious dux bellorum dux-ing
From the rear, while a squadron of pigs fly
Above, powered by pixie-dust and dreams

I worked for five long years,
Nights in a cardboard box factory
Long, long. nights of pain and sweat
The machines never stopped
You had to really work hard
To try to keep up with them
If you ever hit the stop button
The supervisor would
Come down from his office
And want to know why

Outside the factory doors
Where we had to stand to smoke
A train track ran right past
On my 4 'O' Clock break
I would stand there
Cigarette in hand, staring
Staring, staring,
Staring at the trains
Dreaming about the people
And where they were going
I didn't know if they were
Heading  North or South
They could have been going
To London or Edinburgh
I didn't really care
They were always just
Going away
And that seemed good enough
For me
Away from sweat and pain
And long nights in a factory
Away from cardboard ******* boxes
And
Always
Away
From
Me