The pawns are having fun today.
They’re sacrificed, as is their way.
The castles are aswarm with knights,
the bishops immune to their plights.
While kings and queens,
snug in their beds,
dream Christmas thoughts:
"Off with their heads!"
A poet dreams upon a ledge,
while painters pace abysses’ edge.
As bulldozers level mountains,
architects build indoor fountains.
Nothing in this life is certain.
Every answer has its curtain.
Words are said and weapons raised
as the gods are being praised.
It’s been said that all professions
come with their own crazed obsessions.
Baby, you must make your choices
once you understand the voices.
Behind madness logic simmers:
too much light, you hit the dimmers.
All that gold, it surely glitters,
‘nough to give a man the jitters.
Sea to sea see former monkeys
writhing now like power junkies.
That spark evolved from two sticks
has us in our final fix.
Numbers help me free my mind,
cast my troubles all behind.
When I worry about war,
I think sixes, nothing more.
And when pain of hunger scores,
think of eights, in fields of fours.
When pure hatred gets to me,
I must simply conjure three.
When I need to ease the blues,
no sweat, I envision twos.
Feel the need to combat crime?
Here’s the mantra: just say nine.
For specific knives and guns.
it’s real simple: fives and ones.
Seven lives in number heaven.
One last super hero: zero!
Meet mate at seven.
Wash shoes in hyperbole.
Employ the suffering viol.
Shimmer with preordination.
Shelve the crankcase.
Eat more minerals, pronto.
Collapse periodically.
Invent, destroy, implicate.
Condone hysterical bleating.
Disgorge bulbous neckware.
Contemplate, intimidate, validate.
Express pernicious sympathy.
Caulk pejorative arrows.
Combine, fluff, deliver.
Attenuate cosmopolitan philosophy.
Cradle the blaspheming affirmative.
Shrinkwrap yellowed conjecture.
Divide, accelerate, inject.
"Give cheese some pants!"
The war is over,
now that we all have guns.
The new citizen action army
may dress like they don’t care,
but they’ll kill you in a second
if you jive with their peace.
We’ve got several states
that are nothin’ but dead people.
"Peace up, Rhode Island!’
And even though
nobody’s wearin’ bars,
the generals will tell you
who they are.
The lieutenants will mostly
stay inside.
The sergeants, as always,
will mostly die and kill
in even numbers.
And God help the private sector.
