Hazardous waste
has piled up to my waist.
It’s just a simple taste
of worldwide doom.
It seems our end is based
on on-line cut and paste,
and now we all are faced
with satan’s broom.
Sweep away our history.
Keep at bay the mystery.
The life we knew so well
has gone to hell.
When the final bell shall ring
we’ll remember everything.
And our story will boil down
to buy and sell.
Happy Fathers’ Day. The hours melt away.
Only two more left to sell these cards.
Door to door we’ll go,
knocking, don’t you know,
selling reminiscence and its shards.
And it’s Daddy, Daddy-Oh.
How I love you, head to toe.
Your boots are just the fruits
of love’s sweet stand.
Your seed made me what I am,
schizophrenic and, god-damn,
now I’m playing
in an anarchistic band.
Crash the government.
Bury in cement.
Wash the old world
down the unfurled path.
Come out living clean
in the new world scene,
let the dirty bastards
take a bath.
His fingertips are raisins in a certain light,
like fingerprints that just survived a twelve-round fight.
His knuckles often swell and sometimes they will ache.
And if he tried to throw a curve, it wouldn’t break.
The hands that had the flex once of a lithe gym rat
would blister now just swinging his old baseball bat.
And that’s just what old age does to extremities.
When adding in the damage to the feet and knees,
it’s clear the days are gone when he can play at sport,
unless it is restricted to the walking sort.
To both the long jump shot and perfect spiral pass,
he’ll have to bid adieu and fondly raise a glass.
It’s a hard shard to swallow.
It’s a scarred card to follow.
It’s a lumbering craft dragged out to sea.
We were just getting started.
The sand itself departed.
Wave after endless wave and tree by tree.
It came on as expected,
nature tortured and rejected.
We stripped the world of all its mystery.
It’s an invite to extinction,
our last moment of distinction.
We rowed off on the tears of misery.
Grab this dark cloud now and wring it out.
Its tears will be the moneyed mead of oil.
So, shut the lights off, mama, for, no doubt,
you’re gonna have some acid in your soil.
The trees won’t grow, but cars will go.
Some animals will be put out of business.
Extinction helps economy, you know.
You’ll get your bobcat sandwich down at Quiznos.
Who cares about the ocean or the chem trails?
Who cares about the fish; they’re just a fad.
We’re talking greed right off the old pro tem rails.
Where history’s concerned, we’re just plain bad.