Thousands die in the Middle East yearly. Ten years after 9/11 Americans still get teary. I still loathe green bottle beer. Ring the alarm more personal freedom dying. Tiring, trying to wrap my head around the ideology of how could we allow the powers that be access to the DMT that our pineal gland secretes or treating intellectual property as a mere commodity. I could play the blame game. Instead I choose to maintain. Check out a nursery rhyme to see what knowledge it might contain.

Betty bought some butter but she said the butters bitter and a bit of better butter would make a better batter. So she bought a bit of better butter better than the bitter butter and it made here batter better. Butcher, baker and candlestick makers back in the day when Slick Willy fucked Monica Lewenski’s twat with a cigar, nine months later she gave birth to a Marlboro Lights pack. Ken Starr the Smithsonian wants the blue dress back. That’s the type of man I can respect. One that liked Presidential head behind the Oval Office desk and spent tax dollars on domestic programs like educating the young, sustaining the middle class and playing a mean sax. I ain’t no Democrat but I can still say stay out of Iraq and bring Manifest Destiny back.

Not Linda Tripping, but if the senses don’t lie then why do I have two eyes, two ears, two hands and two feet. Shut your pie hole and evoke the 4th power of the Sphinx. What you going to do when commercial truths been reduced to the footprints of towers one and two. Lady liberty’s promise to the huddled masses turned into a migratory mess. I’d give my left arm to ease one minute of harm that Mother nature has had to endure from the legend of the fall to Pink Floyd’s The Wall and beyond. I have lied, cheated and stolen to feel like the paintings of Joe Coleman. No evolution. No escape from this rat race. No matter the idyllic picture the Martian Chronicles might have painted on your brain when you had to read Ray Bradbury back in 7th grade.

Let the people consume cake! Let the teens wake and bake! Let the parsley get eaten off the plate! Less waste, more 21 hour work weeks. More corn flakes in the bowl. Would like to buy the world a Coke. but I switched brands to keep the ad men on their P’s and Q’s. Only you can choose what personal info collected by Facebook says about the true you. Become pure mind then you can rhyme lines like: refulgent and coruscate metaphrastic logorrhea called a hoarse voice morphing into Hobson’s choice. Look my song hooks have turned into one hundred page books. Lignified and puerile I’m that type of guy. Not a noveau douche just a dude lost in a fugue composed of X’s and O’s, pimps and the hoes, the secret alien technology knows. Sex magic has taken control, populations continue to grow as the nuclear family’s corpse drops cold and slow as an outmoded social code. I know I smoke too much, use alcohol as a crutch. Since my addictions won’t budge, I’ll sip from caffeine cups expanding my empire with black lungs.

Fire in the hills run boy run
Devil’s in the house, the sun behind the sun
Politicians in control of your genomes
Pecking at your soul
Run for your life it’s the fall of Rome.