I bought a cruiser bike
instead of a mountain bike
I’m a sextagenarian
not a 30-something
so every morning I pedal
to the corner across from the Ritz-Carlton and the Montage
next to the high-rent Pandemonde Café
and count the Ferraris roaring by.

I never had a Ferrari
but I did buy a ’96 Mustang once
and souped it up with a supercharger
which was around the time
my doctor took me off testosterone
because my prostate specific antigen
was way too high

You have an inoperable prostate malignancy, he said
after the biopsy
You can’t take hormone replacement anymore
It will **** you

And as I lean on my bike
depressed about missing the rush
of another boost of synthetic male hormone
I enjoy watching the Europen speedsters streak by
so proud of themselves
in cars that cost more
than my house.

I used to wish I was them
used to feel like them
when I was younger and charging hard
but now I just utter prayers
for each Lamborghini that goes by
and I say
I hope your car is faster than cancer.

feminism is pretty much a failure like communism... the latter wanted the workers of the world to unite... but they didn't... each working man took too much pride in his earnings an expenses to the extent that he sought no idealistic solution... the self-preservation element... feminism is very much alike to communism... it comes from the same source, the bourgeoisie caste... which explains why prostitutes in France defended their pundits... they basically said: ******* little Freudian undecided *****, with us it's 100 ***** a week... with you it's only about 100,000 interpretations of a **** in clingfilm at a Hollywood premier: your choice, either 100 *****, or a ***** and the cinema of the would-be agonies or a man resembling Richard Burton, sober, and being a Swedish patent for a house-husband, and a closet poet, and a chef, and a, and a, and a... can i suggest a kaleidoscope as the safest investment?

imagine sitting in a brothel waiting room,
there's about 10 of them -
and they're looking at your like you're
their father and they're about to skin you alive
like piranhas with their eyes -
it can be quiet intimidating,
what for £10 entry fee and £110 and hour
baggage of silenced ******* -
you're basically ******* Ferraris and Lamborghinis -
but it's worth the while,
you genitalia turn into a pavlova before
it's baked mush - your testicles are soaring
angels with the ticklish bits added
to what feels like a shiver of goosebumps -
you sit there for a while, it's the hardest time
to be making choices, you ask for a cup of water
(i always did),
you get it, Keith Lemon is doing his talk show,
the older prostitutes are un-amused -
they're the ones who'd skin you alive,
pick one and she turns into a sadistic
vacuum cleaner in the realm of oration -
you think these terrorists and so-called
martyrs would have the ***** keep up with an ante-chamber
like that? these women can sniff out perversity
like they might sniff out a woodlice in damp wood...
or the spiders that complete their weaving
and never take the central role on the stage,
but ****** their spiderweb before scuttling
into the frenzy of making a body of other insects
into immobile dough to **** into on the sidelines,
they're the out-of-body experiencing their architecture,
there's no ego in them, not central nervous system...
i always thought that spiders compensated the
cartesian problem with their spiderwebs -
they extended their nerves through their *****
into an architectural project of nerve endings / extensions...
see, that's the thing about poetry: pure narration...
no technique, no nothing, no need to create a
third person or first person ******, no characters
to study and incubate into a thrill ending: poetry
is the purest form of narration, easily a ricochet
into digression that in fiction would only mean another
grey matter character to involve in the plot.
. and - (dot and hyphen, as suggested by Nietzsche,
is steaming along forgetting the semi-colon).
- i swear insects are the perfect telescopes into
alien life... on that micro level you get to
understand the many hazards of differentiated life
elsewhere... it's the microbes you need to
mind as the real hazards and blizzards -
but this one time i broke the brothel rule
denoted as choice: i didn't make one.
i asked for one to make a choice for me...
one talkative gall said i shouldn't be asking...
so i replied: well aren't you the talkative one...
you'll do. told you a butcher's supermarket -
i turned myself into a piece of meat -
the ***** butcher said: he'll have to do,
he prompted me to talk the heretical *credo...
the outer-body experience, prostitutes are the experiment,
i asked of the 10 present and my penguin **** solo
shrivelled up newspaper of ******* to chose -
and she did... it's funny giving choice to someone
who you payed to choose from... these Muslim martyrs
will find it had to keep it level headed like Solomon -
these boys will really struggle to reap their rewards...
they just blow up ten people but never sat in
the company of ten prostitutes...
ten blown up, in the company of ten prostitutes...
you really don't know what it's like trying out
whether you could stomach a harem, let alone keep
one like a walrus...
ever stole a kiss from a ******* who's saintliness
involved never giving one but merely ******* more ****?
hmm? oh i can get pornographic after all...
it's a joyride troupe of force in thinking the joys i
nourished in such places... although i have to admit
Amsterdam would never feed such poems...
it's just common place everything's worth clapping
(or too much clapping by the serfs at a Bolshoi ballet),
you need the thrill of something being illegal...
in the case of itemising England it's the brothel owners
that are the culprits, not the prostitutes, nor the pundits,
which is why i asked to perform oral *** once in a while
for the extra undocumented 10 quid... that didn't fall
into the hands of the madame... so it ends...
feminism alright for you, in that ivory tower of yours,
unscathed, belligerent and with sulphuric toxic gas
to **** out from your mouth as the proper argument?
the heart not steady? i see... i guess you have a hard fight
ahead of you... young men go to prostitutes undiscriminating
their age and **** as **** would do too,
but young women don't go to prostitutes,
professional women do... and they'd always probably
**** some young dude... see the difference?
young men go to prostitutes... young women have all
the eye-to-**** candy they can have... older women order
**** and limousine, a night out, a date, a dinner...
young men are like: broken pipe, need a plumber,
stillson pipe wrench! and where's that ******* spanner?!
and contrary to popular beliefs, cats have
a second weak spot other than petting their heads
and playing with their whiskers... the point
between the evolve coccyx and the spine...
they really love a rub when the coccyx turns into
a tail... it's almost like a reverse test for prostate cancer...
every cat sitting down when rubbed in that area
will do a marching army band salute of raising its
hind in anticipation of a rainbow -
and yes, urinating with ******* is pretty much as
exciting as a woman massaging her ******* with
a shower head with pulverising pressurised water.

they call it the intellectualism of a tumbleweed's
worth worth of attention...
      they call it jargon,
or gnarling, or showing your teeth weather smiling
or teeth kept to a gnashing of bone until reaching
marrow - as they say: if a tartar steak (which
is raw, there's no medium or
well-done to speak) has not marrow
juice for glue... forget it...
i'm eating the horse.
they call it difficult and they call it
jargon because they forgot the Kantian
key... oh sure, the keyhole
is Hegelian pop culture, Hegel is pop,
Kant is antiquity... but in terms of what's deemed
"difficult"? at the end of the day Kant said
0 = negation...
            what symbol could engulf affirmation?
and what symbol would affirm doubt?
  would = proposition and could = preposition?
i'm sorrowful to say: prepositions are still
taken to be grammatical units,
while propositions evolved from aye & nay
into maxims... a sorry state of affairs.
      so Hegel is pope... of ****... pop...
and Kant is an antiquity...
fair enough, we have Nietzsche to thank
for calling him an idiot... i too had great ambitions...
such writings are akin to arithmetic,
what i'm interested in is not a Dostoyevsky
narrative being prescribed for huddling from
the cold in Siberia...
     a        the              's, or how to bypass
the elephant man in staging a language
to be said, avoiding the language thought of,
the plural and the possessive usage with
the distraction of the hanging comma:
its (anger at the l.g.b.t. community
    for any pronoun usage deviatory to the cause)
      and it's (such that English is, Cockney rhyme
or modern urban slang... Becca instead of Rebecca...
Liz instead of Elizabeth...
   no wonder people started calling their children
Peaches)... which is shortened for the drool of it is;
i know they discriminate against these caravan
hobbit inhabitants of Shropshire, but the earls
really do write like these Pikies speak...
trolley trolley bumblebee black bitchiness boo...
    the r that's a trill becomes almost curly...
           well this is an x-ray of all things fleshy,
it doesn't / or should go to the bone...
            you talk to your mother with that tongue
and lick the privates of your ******-coo
             maiden too?
probably not... some called them gypsies,
some called them the ironed shirts...
which was ironic because of the many problems
that Middletons spotted in terms of creases...
         libido though? i'd spotlight a **** for
a gypsy girl... as i said: i'd **** anything that
moves and only hanky-panky my palette
on oysters if i had to... it's called the rebellion
against feminism: or ****** oppression to
endorse kiddy fiddlers in dog-collars getting away
with it and us, "men" having to make
the hand entwine the **** into a boa constrict ion
to imitate: a experience of a ****** i never wish
i had... that's transgender: i've got two
organs... one's a bit android, but **** needing
to necessitate a **** to get the kangaroo pouch
of feeling it, mmm.
              well, if it's too hard, then i'm obviously
employing a darwinism of some sort:
intellectual selection; i put the effort into
writing it, you put an effort into reading it,
the plebs get their stake... and everyone's happy.
     but no one gets away with youtube
regurgitated murk of someone promoting a book
   and then having to reduce it to quote,
while the book if waved about like a brick
about to be lodged into the Library of Babylon...
well... we know what happened with
the library of Alexandria... there's not a single
dittohead to encourage revising what was there once.
as we "speak", this is Latin written in Arabic,
i.e.: right to left, rather than left to right...
  but hey, no runes, so the crucifixion of Juan
at Golgotha wasn't all bad after all...
            look at how Arabic squiggly and Hebrew
proto survived, we could have gone down the route
of hieroglyphics (ideograms, but still the Mandarin
survived), but unlike cuneiform... there were simply
too many holes to be filled with Latin...
but i still don't get why they wrote a shortcut for
U using V, given O... i guess the shortcut for
O had to be •, Omnium Vampirism stake to the heart
of the stone for an indentation...
    i'd cite you the mea culpa if i could only use
another phonetic encoding, but i can't, i'm still
using Latin encoding... it's beyond dodo, it's the one
sound-encoding that could create the technosphere
of digitalising papyrus.
so Hegel is pope because non-economic Marxism
is pop... but i leverage with W. Burrough's
cut-up and Tzara and cabaret voltaire...
   and how revitalising Kant is crucial in saying:
but he already mentioned a thesis and an antithesis
disciplinary coercion in a moving-forward of
mutually-progressive antagony... why is
Hegel the one to take all the credit?
               why not say akin to: Leibniz & Newton
said some about calculus... ah ****, i forgot,
all the Ferraris and bling and *******...
                           let's just settle for the fact that
Hegel brought about the mingling of thesis
and antithesis to create a synthesis that
culminated in Marx, and Kant brought about
the mingling of thesis and antithesis to create
an analysis...
                           i bypass Nietzsche on this point
for insulting Kant, and having been overtly
influenced by the French...
la Rochefoucauld, is, after all, the antidote to
Machiavelli, and that's my pardon;
but that's beside the point, some people want it
easy, but language does take toward
being nurtured sometimes, like a flower as a seed
as later blossom, as later a fruitful in abounding
colour...
                 language doesn't have to take the route
toward a bestseller preacher-style dross of
congregational assimilation and a "shared experience",
which is why i abhorrent that words had to be
invited into an l.s.d. experience,
                        absolutely no c.i.a. transparency...  
it was all up-in-the-air and never personal...
if i write about something personal i'm writing it
because people in the 1960s went beyond the person
experience of hallucinogenic drugs, and the reason
why i wouldn't take them: is because they wrote
about them and ***** the whole case of wanting
to experience it... as the shaman don juan said:
it's your own; once it has been ascribed words?
    it's commonly shared down to the pinpoint
of a plumber and a toilet... once it has been contaminated
with words / accounts of such an experience?
it has become generic, it has become a poem that
can no longer retale it's status as l.s.d., thanks,
***** beatnik, *******.
    well... if a piece of writing is hard... treat it like
if it were some venture into arithmetic,
    and given the parallelism of space-time 1
                with time one, and the Kantian
0 = negation... you'll deny it, because it's too complicated
on the basis of, so what's the equals?
             like that cartesian result: i think therefore i am...
   therefore i'm still thinking... well the + is that
you're still intact and not shrapnel of wonder ascribing
fascination for prefixes suffixes conjunctional *****
        and diacritical marks as once thought of as
rebellious angels in Milton's theology, redeemed,
ruling over ulterior suggestions of dissecting words
for the correct rhythm.
   if a piece of writing is difficult: it's a version of arithmetic,
the only question is whether you can complete the sum
  of the arithmetic and, obviously enough, return to
yourself as your "self", in that you are intact,
having experienced a "self" or the cognitively active
other in the reflexive sense of yourself, which in turn
props of your self, in what's to be of you in the reflective
sense; that's the equivalent of arithmetic,
hence we have encyclopedias and dictionaries as
being equivalent of calculators... i still don't understand
why complex writing isn't deemed equivalent of arithmetic,
i'll probably die not understanding this...
yes, yourself is reflexive   and your self is reflective...
English really is a battlefield of pronoun use...
let alone revitalising yourself with an archaic word...
   thus said: Kant will never reach the populist status
of Hegel.

"flower cannonball" they called you, since your
stems wrapped itself tightly together like hands
intertwined or vines clinging onto a fence or even
my teacup mix's claws yanking onto my lace shirt.

they used the dumpster graveyard flowers to create
you. despite the vivid color scheme, the cannonballs
were nothing short of a beautiful disaster in my head.
let an apocalypse happen, i'm already rotting away
anyway from the mixture of screwdrivers and the
cannonball drinks. let me strain myself clear of hues
of blues and black you painted me with. let me sink
with these letters tucked underneath my ribcage as
my seatbelt for the death sentence. at first, i couldn't
understand why you were called a name like that.

now i am understanding love and loss's gravitational
pull and the release of that gravity. you were a beautiful
disaster, building castles on rubble and driving ferraris
on cracked streets filled in with tar. you were nothing
short of beautiful, nothing short of death being romantic,
and death is starting to look a lot like you now.

i don't even care if i die anymore.

- kra

Regardless of the money that you have in banks,
despite all the Ferraris and the planes you have,
you're still disappointed with the man you see,
that's because no luxury will ever succeed at
making your life feel like is complete.

what's with these juicy bits?
got talking to a cashier at a supermarket
because i wanted cash-back
rather than using the automated till,
she was part of a book club,
her grandchildren, something something,
oh yeah, into tudor english,
prope'h east ender but more into
o romeo o romeo why art thou bits of slicing
the butcher's expression, tudor english...
'so what do you do?
finish work early? work in
a slaughterhouse of mammon
and his slot machines?'
'i've only just begun, i'm an
adolf ****** of poets according to w.h. auden,
i mean, wait wait, i can make a calypso's worth
of sound with rhyme, and look ironically intelligent too!
i have ~40 adamant readers elsewhere,
yes,  had to look for a publisher on the continent.'
you know, all that jazz & bass talk,
when you're buying whiskey laconically day to day,
and we both agreed: it's nice to leave an imprint
on someone, somewhere else, far far away,
rather than just an echoing footprint of a pacified
stranger passing en route on a shopping spree;
so don't up your game thinking writing is
a mind game of ups and ups...
it's a task like anyone else's, although it doesn't
pay out bundles of Ferraris or ******...
there ain't not glamour in it...
you only get recognition in terms of the numbers
doing it after you're dead...
because it looks easy, because it looks like
a granny in an armchair...
what's that, 30 poems in and finito -
             carpe diem hasta la vista baby?
strap me rigid on that train, i'll pay with all my
teeth being punched out to see where this is going;
juicy bits my ***.

I once dreamt

Of a child beneath a tree, in a field off the edge of a small farm.
Small farm that owned large landscapes, and passing by through the freeway were the sad broken horses. All the beasts of burden that were more burden than beast, and they dribbled blood from their noses and they limped when they strolled.

They passed in one lane, while the cars passed in another. Fast ferraris and hot wheel model look alikes. Breezing by barnyards and dead horses trying to live with blinders on the corners of their eyes.

This little boy sat resting under a large tree, filling his lungs with horse heaves. On the side of a road looking out across the fence that separated his land and his curiosity.

And I couldnt find myself in the dream, I was nowhere. Floating as a molecule of oxygen, painting the scenic ocean of grain and land, exhausted by the proud sun ray filling the eyes of a boy under a tree. And I continued to wonder how long the boy would sit. If he would stand and run and fly away in to the sunset, into the moon setting, before the land was dark and crisp in its perfect way.

Never once did I wonder why the moon was dissappearing with the fog of the sunlight. And why the stars would not shine here on these never ending hooves, on these tire treads bleeding steam into the air.

A leaf drifted onto the boys lap and i found myself, watching the sound of the wind pull moonlit tides of grass and grain towards the boy. The sunlight placed it's fingers on his tears and dried them, wiping them away.

It was then I saw, this boy was blind. My final moments as the leaf in the wind, falling by the side of a boy. Then falling on his shoulder, and i witnessed death through thousands of green soldiers, rustling through the static of the air and closing their eyes on the floor.

The horses still clopping out of tune. The cars not slowing down. It would be pitch black soon. And I'd come to realize this boy, through collective images of falling friends, drifting deadmen.  Like a puzzle, I saw, he was lost. And could not find his home. The sounds betrayed his ears, and the pitch black was not silent, as the last bit of light sunk away beyond the horizon.

He was here, in tattered rags, his eyes were blind and he could not hear past the road. The sun and moon would burn his tears away, but in the dark his eyes would water the roots, his skin would tear and become the bark. He could never go home, but he would always be needed.

My eyes closed in the dark, his eyes remained open all the time. Somehow, I found we were both lost.

I was the wind, and he was the earth.

Ferraris fit for racing
Being iced "Gelato"
tasting Italia
No sleep for Mama Mia
Customs of loving
The Zzz Z's

Sunrisers * God bless U
Sneeze
My Wine and cheese
Don't snooze
Pancakes not to share
Syrupy so Zippy
Show someone

"U Care'
The zest of trippy

The timeshare
Calendar date
The lust stare
reminder
"Keep the Date"
Don't dream blind her
To find the biggest
spender
We R the world
compromise
Love her like nobody else
Could take her place

Be the kinder true lover
*       *       *       *       *       *
Catch up Zzz z"s
Wake up Buzz
Cop some Zzz z"z
Get off the computer
D's 4 dummies
The zest of love
is fate
Wake up from those
dreams no time 2-B
Late

All V's Validate
Victory
Valiant
Valentino
cappuccino
(Valentine days)
I Luv paydays
Vows

I Crown U
Queen B bee BBB
Holidays B bills
Oh! GGG's
Gowns zigzags
designs

Give me a sign
On her head
"Queen of the Reign"

Zest smells of lemon
The best sleep she
ever had
Never 2-B sad

Zzz z"s zoonotic
Zillion stars in
L for Love
Hypnotic H's Henry
the 8th moon hum
He went mad Mmm
*** a humdrum
Robin Bird singing slam
Wait till he proposes on the
Tenth P & Q

Bbbbb's the blues
Those y's needed more
years_
Zig Zag catch
40 winks
Frequent flyers
of jet lag drinks

Only 50_ dollars it stinks
More Zzz z"s zap a zillions
Just crash fingers do
the talking
I pad in millions
Ssss Shh stalking
Bunk bed Beatles
bopping heads
Abby Lane walking

Zonk out what a time
Apartment 4- A he
balled me out
I feel stretched to my
limit V- Visa
I'm out to sleep
Rest recovery went way
too deep with Lisa

R-4 Joy my middle name
This is not about
all letters to keep
Or the Alphabet

Not takeoff movie set
This poem
New discovery,
To be happy

Don't oversleep_

Smiling like no other
sunset rose stem
Create your time
Lips met the sunset
Don't hide your
words with disguises

The call of duty
My Mom the lovely
"Judy"
She smiles never sleeps
My heart is tied with hers
To keep

What is the Zzz z's
Zealous
Delicious
Jealous
Love heart
Don't cut out my shape
Down to zero escape

Don't hibernate with
Zombies more hobbies
R for recuperation
We need better cooperation
Be the leader don't zonk out
The Army tank catch those
Zzz z's
Before your time is out

In the fragments of my dream-state, I saw a past I didn't wish to uncover.

My old home-street.
It was the summer of a childhood memory, and the air was temperate-- like lukewarm water, suspended and perfect, almost vacuous-- without breeze or gust, as if strung up in some test-tube of a world.

The suburban houses lined the path, it felt the dawning age of autumn-- that though the trees were green, I could feel them ready to release themselves. to fall and die-- but not yet.

In the front lawns of these houses, exotic vehicles-- Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Maseratis-- an Italian road show strange and deeply uncouth.

With bright fantastic colors of cherry red and enamel white and neon green and twilight blue and midday yellow and magenta-- they portrayed as monuments, movable statues, and like a hometown get-together the families of the houses stood next to them, proud...waiting. For something.

I walked past, the spectral calls of my childhood friends and neighbors following and whispering inaudibly behind me-- a muffled shadow of voice that I yearned to understand, but could not. They laughed and spoke of illusory things, and within their voices dictated golden, pleasant memory, and a creeping sense of melancholy.

I could see my house at the end of the street. As we walked, it was as if a million summers came and went-- fathers pruned their oak trees, waxed their automobiles, pantomimed cooking and eating and drinking and mirth-- while the sunless sky glowed soft and infantile, a cloudless blanket.

Deep in my consciousness, I felt dread to return home. There was something off-- and as the dream world strips you of your familiarity, of your defenses and rationale, the raw beating flesh of fear spasms.

We reached the house, the procession of childhood friends all but dissipated. The old oak tree in the front lawn had been removed, the soft scent of lavender replaced with the vibrant colors of red rose and lanky yellow tulips that stood in piqued attention, long leaves of perfect green-- a new garden for a new soul.

An unfamiliar girl/woman-- perhaps the new owner of my lost home-- opened the garage, guided me inside.

Inside there was a McClaren, grey and yellow and unbelievably beautiful-- but dark and covered in dust. The garage was always dusty. How interesting that she would leave her prize hidden from the festivities...

She opened the door, in I walked.

In dreams often what we understand of geography and place shifts radically-- so that we may encounter a more unfamiliar world, to recognize it as distinct from waking memory. Perhaps so that we do not get lost-- to give us a way out, a logical incongruity to feed ourselves-- to convince ourselves that this world is imaginary, that it is irrational and inexplicable.

Yet when I entered my home, it was as if I had never left. The television cabinet, the floral couches, the wrought-iron fence through the kitchen door-- all of a sudden I was home again. For all the times I wondered, imagined the new family that took my childhood home--it was okay. It was safe. it was respected.

In the living room, the new family was unpacking posters. Old cartoons and comic characters next to the Christmas fireplace. Upstairs I heard muffled conversation-- bouncing off the vaulted front atrium to my ears, they were in the rumpus room-- the room I had so often called my own-- where I lost myself in books and games and puzzles and dreams. I wanted desperately to see it, yet I felt a slight unease-- I did not wish to push further than I would be let.

The woman guided me to the family room table, where we would so often have our family dinners-- and I would hide myself underneath the legs of unknown relatives, playing with the dog or tracing my finger along the exposed, unfinished wood of the underbelly-- and these memories flooded my dream-- a daydream within a dream-- calling with it a deluge of melancholic nostalgia-- a sort of hypnogogic recollection.

I could feel the stinging ache of these memories. I could hear myself weeping against the chair leg, looking out the french doors into the garden full of roses and grass and lilies and tulips-- familiar yet alien, alive and dead, lost and found. The ache was painful, yet when I suddenly awoke I found myself overcome with a sort of exhausted pleasure-- the kind of feeling one gets after crying for a long time, crying into the end of one's breath-- at the end of a long period of pain, or a resolutive tantrum.

Back to the basics.


They will tell you about money;
All the goodies it has power over
The jets,ferraris , benz,
Holiday in Disneyland or Wonderland
Good will mistresses among others.
But they wont tell you about books
That have lifted up souls and shaped kingdoms.
They will tell you about secrets
Too sacred to mention.
The shady deals that fatten wallets
All quick-rich-scam schemes,
Even tested and proven niceties
But they wont tell you about books
Whose warmth turned swords into ploughshares
Spears into pruning hooks.
They will tell you about fashion;
Addias, Nike, Puma, converse
The exorbitant price they call for,
The prestige, pride and position
For all faithful trendsetters and keepers
But they wont tell you about books
Which ignite creativity and innovation to ***** success.
They will tell about the anointed ones
Thou shall not touch the anointed
Who preach water as they gabble wine
Their sleek livelihood
Their gullible congregants.
But they wont tell you about books
Where ignorance will slashed, packed be buried or good.
My son, many are speakers, this world carries;
Empty cans that make the loudest noise.
If you desire knowledge, then read.
Read.
Read
And READ!

Why do spies turn?
Hanssen, Pitts, Ames
Those are the ones we know about
Those we catch
But how many elude us?
We’ll never find out
Trained to be wary they cover their tracks
As we search for turncoats
It’s painstaking, sometimes depressing work
It’s usually money, unjustified anger at “the system”
Vacation homes, luxury travel and Ferraris provide a measure of pleasure
‘Til they are found out and get life sentences
My colleague, a psychiatrist who has met with these traitors in a
therapeutic setting says they compartmentalize
They think they are very smart (and often are)
And they’re remorseful and ashamed
Every intelligence agency in every country has these problems
Loyalty to country is the norm
But there are always bad apples
There is the suggestion that the agencies
Afford an amnesty to the those corrupted
Isn’t it better to bring them back in than suffer the loss of, say, an aircraft
carrier with 5000 sailors on it than having a traitor not serve a lot of jail time?

Little is a lot when it is in God's hands
Just rely on Him, when there's too many demands
Perfection is exhausting and it'll make you cry
you think you're not enough, and you always wonder why
If you thank Him for the blessings you don't think you got
then He will give them to you, and you will have a lot
The things we think we want, like money and attention
are not what we want most, I just want to mention
we desire freedom, and love and some respect
we think the only ones with this are the rich and the elect
that is not the case, they're in prisons of their own
drinking habits, *** scandals, and feeling so alone
Ferraris and mansions have never caused us awe
jealousy and frustration, though they sometimes drop a jaw
we ridicule the rich for how they use their stuff
even those with way too much, never think it is enough
the things we really value are kindness and humility
but humans are innately wicked and we lack the ability
to see how these things gain us the things that we want most
friends, respect, love, and joy, so just ask the Holy Ghost
You matter, you're unique no matter what it is you do
not everyone that's nice only wants something from you
If you don't know what to do and all you got is a beating heart
Thank God for all of it, that is the best place to start