Gonzo Floyd

Gonzo Floyd, a country Pink alum,
sat on his porch, regardless, chewing gum.
He had a Stratocaster, that was speckled with old plaster
where he had once devoured several walls.
He swore that he would never play in halls.
And no one ever questioned that guy’s balls.
Something was amiss, he’d hiss, while eyeing music sheets.
He’d scan the air and, most aware, descend on frightened beats.
He’d root them out, to cheer and shout, and lay the rhythm open.
It’s number one for several weeks, the back room guys were hopin’.
They saw a tour and they were sure that fame would come to stay.
“I’m sorry, dude,” the rep, so rude, threw down, while in their way.
Rehearsal was just ending, as the tired strings were bending,
and the thumping of the bass declared a stop.
“We’ll never get back there, where every breath of air
declares life’s so much better at the hop.”

Spring Straining

Older does mean slower,
with very few exceptions.
The average drops,
there’s more bad hops,
your eyes don’t pass inspections.
Corrections only last so long.
They seem to have your number.
Your contract’s running out this year
and you can’t swing the lumber.
The young guys doing laps
pass by like in a mascot race.
You shave each day now
just to hide grey stubble on your face.
You cringe to see the lineup card.
Once more, your name’s not there.
You’d happily sign autographs,
but kids don’t seem to care.
At last the roster is announced
to whoops and several cusses.
Perhaps a trade can still be made.
Or you’ll be riding buses.

Malapropic Oversight

Zen parasites amass
in subtle grandeur.
Invincible, inviolate
and destitute.
Imagination spawns
balloons of oversight.
The helix doubles back
along its route.
We are helpless.
Help us, Mister Everything!
Put our feet
upon the path secure.
Malapropic oversight
means nothing’s right.
And life goes by,
unrecognized, a blur.

Reconciliation Beads

We probed inherent violence,
proposed opposing force.
Our findings met with silence,
society’s recourse.
Now we’re a country station
and you’re our demographic.
We’ll tail you through the nation,
through hell and heavy traffic.
We’ll sell you on our prayers, our hymns,
religion and salvation,
persuade you other paths are whims
or back roads to damnation.
We’ll offer you the keys to dreams,
to everything you need.
We lost you once before it seems,
but now we’re up to speed.

March Madness Again

Looks like we’ll have a springtime filled with perps and prosecutors,
all to stop a president who’d rather be at Hooters.
Already we have several names, like Gates and Manafort.
Papadopoulos and Flynn have had their time in court.
Rob Porter and Hope Hicks jumped ship before the boat goes down.
Spicey and the Mooch were booted and got out of town.
Priebus and Sebastian Gorka remain under fire,
like Steve Bannon, Trump’s beloved crypto-nazi liar.
Remarkably, Jeff Sessions, our attorney general gnome,
has not bailed yet, the rebel pet, and still calls D.C. home.
And Sarah Sanders: who can wait to see her on the stand,
with southern twang and double talk, her dominatrix brand.
Maybe surprise ending will be Omarosa wired.
She could play the tapes in court, stand up and scream, "You’re fired!"
All in all, we’d like to see this wrap before the summer.
End this era, known hereafter as "The U.S. Bummer."