Why’s the hot seat so damned cold?
Why’s the new world seem so old?
If politics are bought and sold,
where’s the truth we’re told we hold?
What’s the purpose of elections
when the money makes selections?
If the system needs corrections,
who will insure our protections?
Question marks proliferate
in a country once called great,
suffering now greed and hate.
Answers must be our mandate.
Burning photographs does not destroy the past.
Our history is etched inside the bone.
The smoking world outside our eyes was never made to last.
The song of time gone by is just a moan.
That black cloud on the mountain will circle for us soon.
The pattern of the storm has been revealed.
For every day we look away, there disappears a moon.
Our eyes are closed. Our fate is likely sealed.
Leg pain in the upright bass.
Back ache of the sax.
Flat feet tap the odd drum beat.
Grooves engraved in wax.
Jazz is music’s elder statesman,
dizzy possibilities,
history’s record of the great men
seeking out skeleton keys.
Mitt just took a shit upon the Donald.
Made him look more clownish than poor Ronald.
The stormin’ Mormon’s dump made Drumpf look like a chump.
In fact, the dude has been Rosie O’Donnelled!