No one saw the last strike coming,
on the inside corner humming.
No one saw the walk off homer,
save the hermit Astrodomer.
No one saw the infield fly
never exit from the sky.
All the rules that once applied
disappeared and our sport died.
Stolen bases weren’t returned.
Fireballers really burned.
What were dugouts became trenches.
Kamikazes roamed the benches.
In the bullpen, short relievers
were the last hope of believers.
Our military found a way to make cows fly.
Now, every time they take a shit, some folks might die.
A cow flop dropped from fifty feet up might not matter.
But from half a mile the thing makes quite a splatter.
All day, conscripted cows are fed on tasty grasses.
Then, at night, they drop their turds on foreign asses.
One huge one-eyed cow they called ‘Cyclops’
dropped last week the mother of all flops.
Bovine bombs have even disturbed ranks at ISIS,
who must now condemn this U.S. cow crap crisis.
So far, enemies get just one break.
When they shoot one down, they all eat steak.
Thinking machine warped.
That was the rumor.
Perhaps a pressure on the brain,
No reason for the aberrant behavior.
No defenders, certainly no savior.
And now the time had come
to pay the price.
The options like a pair of loaded dice.
Go back on point
and thus return to normal.
Declare oneself insane
and make it formal.
Regardless, said the judge,
of what your choice is, you must
kill off at least one set of voices.
Or pick eternal quietude instead.
Then spend your days
amongst the living dead.
But, lo, he found the back route
out of hell
that hung inside the haven of his cell.
I am in the middle of an instant revolution
when the alarm rings and I am sent back
to my sedentary self. No planet has my calendar
on its docket. Eight ball, side pocket.
Suddenly, I’m back on the green and, sight unseen,
I disappear. My hideaway dreams have outbid
t.v shows, and, like that, I’m on the front line
in small letters, watching tomorrow’s fortune today.
I knew a cow whose fur was made of sparks.
Because of this, he found that he’d been banned from many parks.
He longed to get into Comiskey.
But secret service found him frisky.
So, on his birthday, he drank whiskey.
And later tried to buy some weed from narcs.
He’s an indy cow. Indy cow.
And his yellow belly longs for peace.
He loves Indy chow. Indy chow.
His intestines sing selected songs from "Grease."
PUSH SPECIAL BUTTON SHAPED LIKE COW
choose song & import video now
NOTE: Indy cow can be any religion or sexual persuasion
He’s available for birthday fun or any old occasion
Buy tickets now for next month’s one cow performance:
"I sold my soul to Nike and became some Jordan Airs."
Phil Ochs Died For Our Sins 4/9/76
Its sprouts look like an onion bulb,
but smell like vanilla, or, in some strains,
cinnamon, the driver explained as we careened
along rain-slicked back roads to his country home.
I was still wearing my suit and had brought nothing.
Curtailing my long explanation, he pointed a hitcher’s thumb
toward the back seat and said, "you can wear my work shirt."
There, on a wire hanger, was a bright blue tie-dyed tee.
Quick as that, everything was cool.
And the world’s greatest song played on his cassette deck.
The sheep was out of bounds.
Horses, hookers and dolls were o.k.
But everybody hits rock bottom.
Next morn it’s up and climbing.
Every day thereafter is a mountain.
Praying for a foothold.
Cactus is your only friend.
And at the apex, what awaits you
but a downhill slide over scree,
shale, thorn, bark and bother.
Another fall, another winter.
A drop in the bucket of slop
that seems to be the destiny of man.
Trapped inside, like water.
Outside, chain link and barbed wire.
Concrete mesa and rock ledge.
Broken glass and bottles thrown
from on high. A wave of pulsing oil.
Here comes a train again.
Lost dogs, guard dogs, devil dogs.
Red-eyed and hungry.
Screamed languages unheard,
almost as in song.
Forever chased to dead ends.
Rumors of a river downhill.
If only just one door to knock upon.
Long ago there were friendly faces.
In the times before the glass pipe.
He wandered into a fantasy of the prairie,
a silver spoon child with such a cute scowl.
He was going to be a cowboy, a spaceman,
a pirate. Pirate was in his genes.
He won all the Monopoly games because
his crying and tantrums made other options
much too painful for the players involved.
He said, "Big blocks good." He loved adjectives.
He would mumble, "Pretty, pretty," as he
stroked the skin of thin young women.
He had trouble reading and cheated at math.
He had no friends and he scared his enemies.
He bullied and lied his way into power.
His handlers claimed his tantrums
made him more interesting and ‘real.’
He pulled many strings and broke promises.
And yet his hangers-on hung on.
He was orange. He was red. He was fuzzy.
He was a muppet in wolf’s clothing.
Develop your dexterity
in practice of sincerity.
Achieve internal parity.
Such balance is a rarity.
Resolve the mind’s distortion.
Remove outside extortion.
Learn how to reapportion.
Become one with Frank Gorshin.