SICKENING SINGING SYCOPHANTS!!!
ONLY DEAD OR DOPEY FISH SWIM WITH THE DIRTY SWEEP OF THE SEWAGE STREAM!
THE ‘FANTAIL DARTER’ WITH STEELY FINS WILL WADDLE THROUGH THE CRAPPY CURRENT TO THE VERY END THEY WISH TO REACH!

THE PROUD LION HITS THE FOREST PATH IN HIS OWN DETERMINED STRIDE,
TAKING A DIRECTION NOT FAMILIAR OR COMFORTING TO
THE BATTERED BROKEN PACK
OF THE STOMACH REEKING WOLVES
LEFT BEHIND TO FEED ON THE DROPPINGS OF THE DEER!

TYRANTS WILL NEVER GROW SUCH SHARP CLAWS
OR SUCH LONG TEETH
TO DEVOUR THE WEAK AND THE MEEK
IF EVERY FAINTING LAMB WAS A FEROCIOUS TIGER,
AND EVERY TREMBLING FADING LEAF A LIVING ‘THUJA’!

DUMB IDOLS ARE DEAF TO HEALING IDEAS
THAT ARE DROWNED BY THE NUTTY NOISE IN THEIR PIT.
BLIND AS BATS TO THE DIRT ON THEIR LAPS AND
THE SICKNESS SIMMERING IN THEIR SHRINES,
THEY GO OUT HUNTING FOR MORE FATAL FILTH,
IN PLACES FAR AND STRANGE!

THE FAVORITE HYMNAL FOR ANY DICTATOR
IS THE LONELY SONG OF COWERING SILENCE
OR THE LOUSY CHORUS OF WORSHIPFUL PRAISE!
FOR THAT IS THE LIFEBLOOD FOR LOOTING ‘LARS’!

I AM NOT A SINGING SYCOPHANT.
MY VOICE WAS NEVER SHAPED TO RAISE A TENDER TUNE TO THIEVING TYRANTS!!!

WHEN FIRST I MET MY LOVE
I SAW A PLAITED HEAD
WITH WHITE TEETH WARMLY WED
TO SOFT CHEEKS CREAMED IN RED;
ON WHICH MY SOUL, I FED.

I STOUTLY STOOD MY GROUND,
AND WAVED MY WANTON WAND,
HOPING TO MAKE HER STAND,
AND SIP MY SILVER SOUND.

TWO EYES SWAM IN ONE HEAD,
LIKE WHITE PEARLS SPREAD ON BREAD.
HER SMILES WEAVED SPARKLY THREAD,
ON LIPS, LIKE HONEY SPREAD.

“IS THIS MY ROSE OF HOPE
OR JUST A SUICIDE ROPE?”

AND YES, SHE SMILED AGAIN;
SENDING SPARKLES THROUGH MY BRAIN,
WRAPPING ME IN MY FIERY THOUGHTS,
ROLLING ME INTO BALLY KNOTS.

AND THEN,

SHE CHANGED HER WALKING LANE!                                                                                                         LEAVING ME CHAINED TO PAIN,
PLEADING OUT ALL IN VAIN,
UNDER THAT POURING RAIN!

BUT

SOME SEASONS DOWN THE LINE,
THROUGH THICK AND PRICKLY PINE,
I WATERED WELL MY VINE,
LEAVING THE SUN TO SHINE,
TURNING MY ONE TO NINE,
MAKING HER WORLD AS MINE.

SO LOOKING

AT OUR WEDDING FRAME,                                                                                                                     WOULD YOU CHALLENGE MY CLAIM,                                                                                                       THAT SEEDS NURTURED IN STRAIN,                                                                                                           MAY SPROUT A GOLDEN GRAIN?

For VISA stamp
Our youths set camp
Where day by day
They stand like clay
Their case to plead
With hearts that bleed.

Like scattered sand
From looted land
They’re blown away
And dumped like hay
On foreign farms
In snowy fields.

Drugged by the dream
Of constant cream
They drift on streams
In trembling teams
Or scale the skies
In floating files.

Like self-sold slaves
They snake their ways
To sniff the stench
Of GLAMOUR’S bench
And fight to feed
At feet of GREED.

In Dollar-Shrine
With silvery shine
They freeze and fall
And kneel and crawl
Like wretched whores
On marooned shores.

Trapped by the rope
Of hyped-up hope
They pawn their souls
For shadowy roles
To join the pits
Of ceaseless “Shifts”.

They dream of “Home”
And love to moan
About the sand
In “Paddle” land
Missing the Sun
And “Fambul” fun

 

 

In a land so broken and bleak
With a people all beaten and weak
Where the wicked feed fat on the meek
The thickening clouds do rise to speak

In tongues that only the wise can hear
They talk of times tailored in fear
And warn of seasons raining with tears
Preparing humans gifted with ears

Where blood and brain are sold in crates
And dollar bags are used as baits
The point of Crash is just a push
As history’s fools await the flush

Let the deluded dancers dance
On the hallowed ‘Grave’ of the sleeping Lion
until they go lame with the crushing pain of ‘gain’
Let them smash their shallow skulls
Hitting the cottoned clouds
Riding high on stolen sacred wings
They will wake up from their drug-filled daze
To the piercing hangover of tomorrow’s pain
And know this hole they dug for lost souls was no Lion’s grave
A rabid ram shall never Lion be
No matter how long or swift-footed
The well-fed rogue dances over a man-made hole
Let the people rejoice in hopes long denied
For the final DANCE of their nightly dreams
Is set to start in concrete style
And the TIME for that tasty tango
Is ticking fast and loud
On the trusted face of the patient CLOCK!
For here comes a son with lively legs
To set the silent stage alight
And give the crippled, a WILL to wheel their dance!

THIS ROAD
Is longer than the tearing teeth of ticking TIME,
And stores a sharper slash than Satan’s searing sword.
“OUR MEN” have lit our lives with the darkness of their lies,
And dug up hellish holes designed for us to crash!
THIS ROAD
Is heaving with the heavy stench of fallen men,
And the constant wail of women trapped in woes.
The dragging screech of chained-up feet, is Nursery Rhyme
To children born to burn,
In unholy flames,
As they tote the troubled Cross
That crushed
Their fathers’ sold-out souls!
SEE “OUR FAILING MEN”
Falling off their moral mountains:
Tore in tortured shreds,
By the savage god
Of corporate Greed;
And grilled like forest game,
Into gutless ghosts,
Leaving not a limb untouched,
Of the wholesome ‘saints’ we danced
So very much
To lift so high!
SEE THEM
Coldly curled in condemned queues,
Of those lined to sign their shivering souls!
SEE THEM
Crawl before their gods,
To be culled like clueless goats,
Made to feed
The evil ‘Guardians of our Tombs’!
JUST HEAR
The sickening screams of bleeding men,
Caring not for carving pain,
Swimming through their streams of shame,
To make a grab for parceled piece
Of painted poisoned meat!
KEEP SWIMMING FAST,
You cringing sons of faithless fad,
Towards that burnt-out broken slice,
Of layered Lies,
Bundled up
In punctured promises
Piling high,
In forbidden TEMPLES
Of trashed-up dreams!
OH! HOW
The tired tales of yesteryears
So loudly hissed by sneaky snakes,
Who wear the shifty hats of ‘Seers’
Will clog your ears and crush your eyes;
‘Saving’ you from sensing out
The daily clang of Hangmen’s chains!
SMILE a little and rejoice,
Some more!
Oh you shepherded flock
Of dreamy doom;
As there is yet reason for joy,
(So much joy that drifts in Dreams!)
To make you clap and dance anew!
YOUR SACRED BLOOD
Will never flow again
In the vine less vase
Of distant gourds,
Or be wasted through a SINGLE drain
Of unknown holes
That spring from far!
BECAUSE,
THIS BLOOD will keep on flowing fast
Spurting in that ‘Sacred Sink’,
Which you toiled so hard to build
In village SCHOOLS
And far off lands!
Now matured to gulp its DUE
In the bloated burning belly
Of your slimy spineless sons
Who sign away your daily deaths
Iin dainty dollar deals,
On papers you will never see.
YES! YOUR SONS!
The same shameless stooges
Who shroud the State in Lie and Loot
And garbage themselves
In robbers’ rusty robes,
Made so FRESH in Stinking NOTES!
See them rolling deep in slime,
Struggling with the killer weight
Of cursed crosses that would crush
Every lice who lives on lies!
There is no Saving Grace
For those who have
No backward glance;
As they ply their crooked path,
On this LONG, DARK, Road
To our final man-made
Doom!

 

In a land so broken and bleak

With a people all beaten and weak

Where the wicked feed  fat on the meek

The thickening clouds do rise to speak

 

In tongues that only the wise can hear

They talk of times tailored in fear

And warn of seasons raining with tears

Preparing humans gifted with ears

 

 

 

 

Where self and soul are sold in crates

And dollar bags seal all our fates

The point of Crash is just a push

As history’s fools await the flush

 

In drowning floods of painful streams

Let no one hope for restful dreams

One  can reap no  golden grain

From such depths  of  deadly pain!

 

 

I Chorus no Croaking Chants;
To Villainous Vampires:
Barring  Tainted Teeth
To chew with joy our Flaying Flesh,

In State House Pots!

No Hallelujah Hymns;
For shifty Snakes in shapeless Suits
Who swallow whole
A Country Crushed on crosses cursed,

In Temples trashed!

I STRING no Saintly Songs;
For Grave tailors:
Who Cut and Craft
Our Shredded Shrouds,

With Smiles that stab!

NO!!!
My Simple Song
Is not for Messy Men
Who work that HARD
To Shame us so, in Sordid Style!

YES!!!

My Dusty Dirge
Is for a Country Crushed
By the Weight of Woes
Imposed on us
With marbled VOTES
To dress our Goats in Colored Coats!

I Voice this Verse
For Shaky Souls
Who Freeze with Fear,
In Silent Strain like Wasted Whores
Lined up to hang on PARTY Poles!

This is a dirge;
To the Daily Drag
Of people left to Drift and Drown
In putrid pools of  Toxic Tears
Flooding a life of grueling grief!

YET:
It’s so hard
To Holler High
‘A Hymn of Hope’
To a nation stunned
And Dropped like Dung
Beyond the feverish Fence

Of Faceless Fear!

Such ‘Sweetened Songs’
Are Hardly Heard
By Screaming Souls
Wriggling like Worms
In horrid Holes of harrowing Hell!

 

Time has wings that flap so fast,

We  never see these whizzing wings

Till it passes us

Like days gone by.

Then we stand or sit

To stare in shock

Even as our NOW becomes their THEN!